r  7? 2- 


Buck  saw  the  shadowed  gesture  of  an  arm,  and  he  cocked  his  pistol. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 
ON    LONESOME 

HELL-FER  SARTAIN" 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 

BY 

JOHN  FOX,  JR. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

P.  C.  YOHN,  A.  I.  KELLER, 
f.  A.  ROGERS  AND  H.  C.  RANSOM 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1910 


COPTRIOHT,   1909,  BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  ON  LONESOME 

and  Other  Stories 
Copyright,  1904  and  1901,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SDKS 

"HELL-FER-S  ARTAIN  " 

Copyright,  1899,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


CONTENTS 

CHRISTMAS  EVE   ON  LONESOME  AND 
OTHER  STORIES 


//C 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  ON  LONESOME            *\ft  .  3 

THE  ARMY  OF  THE  CALLAHAN  ^'^  ?***.  10 

THE  PARDON  OF  BECKY  DAY    F*!"\^   ^.  46 

A  CRISIS  FOR  THE  GUARD    P*.\i'c.<-  Ja-stio^.  58 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  WITH  SATAN   D°.^  sj-or^  76 

"  HELL-FER-SARTAIN  " 

VJ( 
ON  HELL-FER-SARTiVIN  CREEK  .      ,         .       .      99 

THROUGH  THE  GAP     .        .        .        -,       •        •        102 
A  TRICK  O'  TRADE    .        .        .       :.   :  '  .        .        .106 
GRAYSON'S  BABY         .        .....        109 

COURTIN'  ON  CUTSHIN   .        .....    116 

THE  MESSAGE  IN  THE  SAND     ....        122 

THE  SENATOR'S  LAST  TRADE      ....    125 
v 

226718 


CONTENTS 

PREACHIN'  ON  KINGDOM-COME      ...        129 

Tr  u^bxs 

THE  PASSING  OF  ABRAHAM  SHIVERS  ^>**.r  134 
A  PURPLE  RHODODENDRON    ....        137 

MAN  HUNTING  IN  THE  POUND         ...  153 

DOWN  THE  KENTUCKY  ON  A  RAFT   .       .  173 

THROUGH  THE  BAD  BEND 195 

TO  THE  BREAKS  OF  SANDY     ....  217 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Buck  saw  the  shadowed  gesture  of  an  arm, 

and  cocked  his  pistol Frontisptect 

FACING 
PAGE 

Captain  Wells  descended  with  no  little  majesty 

and  " biffed"  him 20 

"Speak  up,  nigger!" 40 

Satan  would  drop  the  coin  and  get  a  ball  for  himself  78 

"  Have  you  ever  searched  for  a  dead  man?  "      .  168 

They  took  us  for  the  advance  guard  of  a  circus      .  226 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 
AND    OTHER   STORIES 


TO 

THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   ON    LONESOME 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve  on  Lonesome.  But 
nobody  on  Lonesome  knew  that  it  was 
Christmas  Eve,  although  a  child  of  the  outer 
world  could  have  guessed  it,  even  out  in  those 
wilds  where  Lonesome  slipped  from  one  lone 
log  cabin  high  up  the  steeps,  down  through  a 
stretch  of  jungled  darkness  to  another  lone  cabin 
at  the  mouth  of  the  stream. 

There  was  the  holy  hush  in  the  gray  twilight 
that  comes  only  on  Christmas  Eve.  There  were 
the  big  flakes  of  snow  that  fell  as  they  never  fall 
except  on  Christmas  Eve.  There  was  a  snowy 
man  on  horseback  in  a  big  coat,  and  with  saddle- 
pockets  that  might  have  been  bursting  with  toys 
for  children  in  the  little  cabin  at  the  head  of  the 
stream. 

But  not  even  he  knew  that  it  was  Christmas 
Eve.  He  was  thinking  of  Christmas  Eve,  but 
it  was  of  the  Christmas  Eve  of  the  year  before, 
when  he  sat  in  prison  with  a  hundred  other  men 
in  stripes,  and  listened  to  the  chaplain  talk  of 
peace  and  good  will  to  all  men  upon  earth,  when 

3 


ON   LONESOME 

he  had  forgotten  all  men  upon  earth  but  one, 
and  had  only  hatred  in  his  heart  for  him. 

"  Vengeance  is  mine !  saith  the  Lord." 

That  was  what  the  chaplain  had  thundered 
at  him.  And  then,  as  now,  he  thought  of  the 
enemy  who  had  betrayed  him  to  the  law,  and 
had  sworn  away  his  liberty,  and  had  robbed  him 
of  everything  in  life  except  a  fierce  longing  for 
the  day  when  he  could  strike  back  and  strike  to 
kill.  And  then,  while  he  looked  back  hard  into 
the  chaplain's  eyes,  and  now,  while  he  splashed 
through  the  yellow  mud  thinking  of  that  Christ 
mas  Eve,  Buck  shook  his  head;  and  then,  as 
now,  his  sullen  heart  answered: 

"Mine!" 

The  big  flakes  drifted  to  crotch  and  twig  and 
limb.  They  gathered  on  the  brim  of  Buck's 
slouch  hat,  filled  out  the  wrinkles  in  his  big  coat, 
whitened  his  hair  and  his  long  mustache,  and 
sifted  into  the  yellow,  twisting  path  that  guided 
his  horse's  feet. 

High  above  he  could  see  through  the  whirl 
ing  snow  now  and  then  the  gleam  of  a  red  star. 
He  knew  it  was  the  light  from  his  enemy's  win 
dow;  but  somehow  the  chaplain's  voice  kept 
ringing  in  his  ears,  and  every  time  he  saw  the 
light  he  couldn't  help  thinking  of  the  story  of 
the  Star  that  the  chaplain  told  that  Christmas 
Eve,  and  he  dropped  his  eyes  by  and  by,  so  as 

4 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON   LONESOME 

not  to  see  it  again,  and  rode  on  until  the  light 
shone  in  his  face. 

Then  he  led  his  horse  up  a  little  ravine  and 
hitched  it  among  the  snowy  holly  and  rhodo 
dendrons,  and  slipped  toward  the  light.  There 
was  a  dog  somewhere,  of  course;  and  like  a 
thief  he  climbed  over  the  low  rail-fence  and 
stole  through  the  tall  snow-wet  grass  until  he 
leaned  against  an  apple-tree  with  the  sill  of  the 
window  two  feet  above  the  level  of  his  eyes. 

Reaching  above  him,  he  caught  a  stout  limb 
and  dragged  himself  up  to  a  crotch  of  the  tree. 
fl  A  mass  of  snow  slipped  softly  to  the  earth.  The 
branch  creaked  above  the  light  wind;  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  a  dog  growled  and  he 
sat  still. 

He  had  waited  three  long  years  and  he  had   /. 
ridden  two  hard  nights  and  lain  out  two  cold 
days  in  the  woods  for  this. 

And  presently  he  reached  out  very  carefully, 
and  noiselessly  broke  leaf  and  branch  and  twig 
until  a  passage  was  cleared  for  his  eye  and  for 
the  point  of  the  pistol  that  was  gripped  in  his 
right  hand. 

A  woman  was  just  disappearing  through  the 
kitchen  door,  and  he  peered  cautiously  and  saw 
nothing  but  darting  shadows.  From  one  cor 
ner  a  shadow  loomed  suddenly  out  in  human 
shape.  Buck  .saw  the  shadowed  gesture  of  an 

5 

M 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON   LONESOME 

arm,  and  he  cocked  his  pistol.  That  shadow 
was  his  man,  and  in  a  moment  he  would  be  in  a 
chair  in  the  chimney  corner  to  smoke  his  pipe, 
maybe— his  last  pipe. 

Buck  smiled — -pure  hatred  made  him  smile — 
but  it  was  mean,  a  mean  and  sorry  thing  to  shoot 
this  man  in  the  back,  dog  though  he  was;  and 
now  that  the  moment  had  come  a  wave  of  sicken 
ing  shame  ran  through  Buck.  No  one  of  his 
name  had  ever  done  that  before;  but  this  man 
and  his  people  had,  and  with  their  own  lips  they 
had  framed  palliation  for  him.  What  was  fair 
for  one  was  fair  for  the  other  they  always  said. 
A  poor  man  couldn't  fight  money  in  the  courts; 
and  so  they  had  shot  from  the  brush,  and  that 
was  why  they  were  rich  now  and  Buck  was  poor 
— why  his  enemy  was  safe  at  home,  and  he  was 
out  here,  homeless,  in  the  apple-tree. 

Buck  thought  of  all  this,  but  it  was  no  use. 
The  shadow  slouched  suddenly  and  disap 
peared;  and  Buck  was  glad.  With  a  gritting 
oath  between  his  chattering  teeth  he  pulled  his 
pistol  in  and  thrust  one  leg  down  to  swing  from 
the  tree — he  would  meet  him  face  to  face  next 
day  and  kill  him  like  a  man — and  there  he  hung 
as  rigid  as  though  the  cold  had  suddenly  turned 
him,  blood,  bones,  and  marrow,  into  ice. 

The  door  had  opened,  and  full  in  the  firelight 
stood  the  girl  who  he  had  heard  was  dead.  He 

6 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON   LONESOME 

knew  now  how  and  why  that  word  was  sent  him. 
And  now  she  who  had  been  his  sweetheart  stood 
before  him — the  wife  of  the  man  he  meant  to 
kill. 

Her  lips  moved — he  thought  he  could  tell 
what  she  said:  "  Git  up,  Jim,  git  up!  "  Then 
she  went  back. 

A  flame  flared  up  within  him  now  that  must 
have  come  straight  from  the  devil's  forge. 
Again  the  shadows  played  over  the  ceiling.  His 
teeth  grated  as  he  cocked  his  pistol,  and  pointed 
it  down  the  beam  of  light  that  shot  into  the 
heart  of  the  apple-tree,  and  waited. 

The  shadow  of  a  head  shot  along  the  rafters 
and  over  the  fireplace.  It  was  a  madman 
clutching  the  butt  of  the  pistol  now,  and  as  his 
eye  caught  the  glinting  sight  and  his  heart 
thumped,  there  stepped  into  the  square  light  of 
the  window — a  child! 

It  was  a  boy  with  yellow  tumbled  hair,  and* 
he  had  a  puppy  in  his  arms.     In  front  of  the  fire 
the  little  fellow  dropped  the  dog,  and  they  began 
to  play. 

"Yap!  yap!  yap!" 

Buck  could  hear  the  shrill  barking  of  the  fat 
little  dog,  and  the  joyous  shrieks  of  the  child  as 
he  made  his  playfellow  chase  his  tail  round  and 
round  or  tumbled  him  head  over  heels  on  the 
floor.  It  was  the  first  child  Buck  had  seen  for 


CHKISTMAS    EVE    GIST   LONESOME 

three  years;  it  was  his  child  and  hers;  and,  in 
the  apple-tree,  Buck  watched  fixedly. 

They  were  down  on  the  floor  now,  rolling 
over  and  over  together;  and  he  watched  them 
until  the  child  grew  tired  and  turned  his  face  to 
the  fire  and  lay  still — looking  into  it.  Buck 
could  see  his  eyes  close  presently,  and  then  the 
puppy  crept  closer,  put  his  head  on  his  play 
mate's  chest,  and  the  two  lay  thus  asleep. 

And  still  Buck  looked — his  clasp  loosening  on 
his  pistol  and  his  lips  loosening  under  his  stiff 
mustache — and  kept  looking  until  the  door 
opened  again  and  the  woman  crossed  the  floor. 
A  flood  of  light  flashed  suddenly  on  the  snow, 
barely  touching  the  snow-hung  tips  of  the  apple- 
tree,  and  he  saw  her  in  the  doorway — saw  her 
look  anxiously  into  the  darkness — look  and  lis 
ten  a  long  while. 

Buck  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  snow  when 
she  closed  the  door.  He  wondered  what  they 
would  think  when  they  saw  his  tracks  in  the 
snow  next  morning;  and  then  he  realized  that 
they  would  be  covered  before  morning. 

As  he  started  up  the  ravine  where  his  horse 
was  he  heard  the  clink  of  metal  down  the  road 
and  the  splash  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  soft  mud, 
and  he  sank  down  behind  a  holly-bush. 

Again  the  light  from  the  cabin  flashed  out 
on  the  snow. 

8 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON   LONESOME 

"That  you,  Jim?" 

"  Yep !  " 

And  then  the  child's  voice :  "  Has  oo  dot 
thum  tandy?" 

"Yep  I" 

The  cheery  answer  rang  out  almost  at  Buck's 
ear,  and  Jim  passed  death  waiting  for  him  be 
hind  the  bush  which  his  left  foot  brushed,  shak 
ing  the  snow  from  the  red  berries  down  on  the 
crouching  figure  beneath. 

Once  only,  far  down  the  dark  jungled  way, 
with  the  underlying  streak  of  yellow  that  was 
leading  him  whither,  God  only  knew — once  only 
Buck  looked  back.  There  was  the  red  light 
gleaming  faintly  through  the  moonlit  flakes  of 
snow.  Once  more  he  thought  of  the  Star,  and 
once  more  the  chaplain's  voice  came  back  to 
him. 

"Mine!"saith  the  Lord. 

Just  how,  Buck  could  not  see  with  himself  in 
the  snow  and  him  back  there  for  life  with  her 
and  the  child,  but  some  strange  impulse  made 
him  bare  his  head. 

*  Yourn,"  said  Buck  grimly. 

But  nobody  on  Lonesome — not  even  Buck — 
knew  that  it  was  Christmas  Eve. 


THE  ARMY   OF    THE    CALLAHAN 


THE  dreaded  message  had  come.  The  lank 
messenger,  who  had  brought  it  from  over 
Black  Mountain,  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the 
stove  and  sank  his  teeth  into  a  great  hunk  of 
yellow  cheese.  "  Flitter  Bill  "  Richmond  wad 
dled  from  behind  his  counter,  and  out  on  the  lit 
tle  platform  in  front  of  his  cross-roads  store. 
Out  there  was  a  group  of  earth-stained  country 
men,  lounging  against  the  rickety  fence  or 
swinging  on  it,  their  heels  clear  of  the  ground, 
all  whittling,  chewing,  and  talking  the  matter 
over.  All  looked  up  at  Bill,  and  he  looked 
down  at  them,  running  his  eye  keenly  from  one 
to  another  until  he  came  to  one  powerful  young 
fellow  loosely  bent  over  a  wagon-tongue.  Ev  m 
on  him,  Bill's  eyes  stayed  but  a  moment,  and 
then  were  lifted  higher  in  anxious  thought. 

The  message  had  come  at  last,  and  the  man 
who  brought  it  had  heard  it  fall  from  Black 
Tom's  own  lips.  The  "  wild  Jay-Hawkers  of 
Kaintuck  "  were  coming  over  into  Virginia  to 

10 


THE   AKMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

get  Flitter  Bill's  store,  for  they  were  mountain 
Unionists  and  Bill  was  a  valley  rebel  and  lawful 
prey.  It  was  past  belief.  So  long  had  he 
prospered,  and  so  well,  that  Bill  had  come  to 
feel  that  he  sat  safe  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 
But  he  now  must  have  protection — and  at  once 
— from  the  hand  of  man. 

^Roaring  Fork  sang  lustily  through  the  rho 
dodendrons.  To  the  north  yawned  "  the  Gap  " 
through  the  Cumberland  Mountains.  "  Calla- 
han's  Nose,"  a  huge  gray  rock,  showed  plain  in 
the  clear  air,  high  above  the  young  foliage,  and 
under  it,  and  on  up  the  rocky  chasm,  flashed 
Flitter  Bill's  keen  mind,  reaching  out  for  help. 

(Now,  from  Virginia  to  Alabama  the  South 
ern  mountaineer  was  a  Yankee,  because  the  na 
tional  spirit  of  1776,  getting  fresh  impetus  in 
1812  and  new  life  from  the  Mexican  War,  had 
never  died  out  in  the  hills.  Most  likely  it 
would  never  have  died  out,  anyway;  for,  the 
world  over,  any  seed  of  character,  individual  or  < 
national,  that  is  once  dropped  between  lofty 
summits  brings  forth  its  kind,  with  deathless 
tenacity,  year  after  year.  Only,]  in  the  Ken 
tucky  mountains,  there  were  more  slaveholders 
than  elsewhere  in  the  mountains  in  the  South. 
These,  naturally,  fought  for  their  slaves,  and 
the  division  thus  made  the  war  personal  and  ter 
rible  between  the  slaveholders  who  dared  to  stay 
II 


THE    AEMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

at  home,  and  the  Union,  "  Home  Guards  "  who 
organized  to  drive  them  away.)   In  Bill's  little 
Virginia  valley,  e£_course,  most  of  the  sturdy 
farmers  had  shouldered  Confederate  muskets 
and  gone  to  the  war.     Those  who  had  stayed  at 
home  were,  like  Bill,  Confederate  in  sympathy, 
but  they  lived  in  safety  down  the  valley,  while 
Bill  traded  and  fattened  just  opposite  the  Gap, 
through  which  a  wild  road  ran  over  into  the 
wild  Kentucky  hills.     Therein  Bill's  danger  lay ; 
for,  just  at  this  time,  the  Harlan  Home  Guard 
under  Black  Tom,  having  cleared  those  hills, 
were  making  ready,  like  the  Pict  and  Scot  of 
olden  days,  to  descend  on  the  Virginia  valley 
and  smite  the  lowland  rebels  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Gap.     Of   the    "  stay-at-homes,"    and   the    de 
serters  roundabout,  there  were  many,  very  many, 
who  would   "  stand  in  "   with   any  man   who 
would  keep  their  bellies  full,  but  they  were  well- 
nigh  worthless  even  with  a  Ieaderjiji0jdr-wi£hout 
a  leader,  of  no  good  at  ally    Flitter  Bill  must 
[find  a  leader  for  them,  and  anywhere  than  in  his 
I  own  fat  self,  for  a  leader  of  men  Bill  was  not 
born  to  be,  nor  could  he  see  a  leader  among  the 
men  before  him.     And  so,  standing  there  one 
early  morning  in  the  spring  of  1865,  with  up 
lifted  gaze,  it  was  no  surprise  to  him — the  coin 
cidence,  indeed,  became  at  once  one  of  the  arti 
cles  of  perfect  faith  in  his  own  star — that  he 

12 


THE   ARMY   OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

should  see  afar  off,  a  black  slouch  hat  and  a  jog 
ging  gray  horse  rise  above  a  little  knoll  that  was 
in  line  with  the  mouth  of  the  Gap.  At  once  he 
crossed  his  hands  over  his  chubby  stomach  with 
a  pious  sigh,  and  at  once  a  plan  of  action  began 
to  whirl  in  his  little  round  head.  Before  man 
and  beast  were  in  full  view  the  work  was  done, 
the  hands  were  unclasped,  and  Flitter  Bill,  with 
a  chuckle,  had  slowly  risen,  and  was  waddling 
back  to  his  desk  in  the  store. 

It  was  a  pompous  old  buck  who  was  bearing 
down  on  the  old  gray  horse,  and  under  the 
slouch  hat  with  its  flapping  brim — one  Mayhall 
Wells,  by  name.  There  were  but  few  strands 
of  gray  in  his  thick  blue-black  hair,  though  his 
years  were  rounding  half  a  century,  and  he  sat 
the  old  nag  with  erect  dignity  and  perfect  ease. 
His  bearded  mouth  showed  vanity  immeasur 
able,  and  suggested  a  strength  of  will  that  his 
eyes — the  real  seat  of  power — denied,  for,  while 
shrewd  and  keen,  they  were  unsteady.  In  real 
ity,  he  was  a  great  coward,  though  strong  as  an 
ox,  and  whipping  with  ease  every  man  who 
could  force  him  into  a  fight.  So  that,  in  the 
whole  man,  a  sensitive  observer  would  have  felt 
a  peculiar  pathos,  as  though  nature  had  given 
him  a  desire  to  be,  and  no  power  to  become,  and 
had  then  sent  him  on  his  zigzag  way,  never  to 
dream  wherein  his  trouble  lay. 

13 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

"  Mornin',  gentlemen  I  " 

"Mornin',  Mayhall!" 

All  nodded  and  spoke  except  Hence  Sturgill 
on  the  wagon-tongue,  who  stopped  whittling, 
and  merely  looked  at  the  big  man  with  narrow 
ing  eyes. 

i  Tallow  Dick,  a  yellow  slave,  appeared  at  the 
corner  of  the  store,  and  the  old  buck  beckoned 
him  to  come  and  hitch  his  horse.  Flitter  Bill 
had  reappeared  on  the  stoop  with  a  piece  of 
white  paper  in  his  hand.  The  lank  messenger 
sagged  in  the  doorway  behind  him,  ready  to 
start  for  home.^ 

"Mornin'  Captain  Wells,"  said  Bill,  with 
great  respect.  Every  man  heard  the  title, 
stopped  his  tongue  and  his  knife-blade,  and 
raised  his  eyes;  a  few  smiled — Hence  Sturgill 
grinned.  Mayhall  stared,  and  Bill's  left  eye 
closed  and  opened  with  lightning  quickness  in  a 
most  portentous  wink.  Mayhall  straightened 
his  shoulders — seeing  the  game,  as  did  the  crowd 
at  once:  Flitter  Bill  was  impressing  that  mes 
senger  in  case  he  had  some  dangerous  card  up 
his  sleeve. 

"  Captain  Wells,"  Bill  repeated  significantly, 
"  I'm  sorry  to  say  yo'  new  uniform  has  not 
arrived  yet.  I  am  expecting  it  to-morrow." 
Mayhall  toed  the  line  with  soldierly  promptness. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  suh — sorry  to 
14 


THE   AEMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

hear  it,  suh,"  (he  said,  with  slow,  measured 
speech.^  "  My  men  are  comin'  in  fast,  and  you 
can  hardly  realize  er — er  what  it  means  to  an 
old  soldier  er — er  not  to  have — er — "  And 
MayhalPs  answering  wink  was  portentous. 

"  My  friend  here  is  from  over  in  Kaintucky, 
and  the  Harlan  Home  Gyard  over  there,  he 
says,  is  a-making  some  threats." 

Mayhall  laughed. 

"  So  I  have  heerd— so  I  have  heerd."  He 
turned  to  the  messenger.  "  We  shall  be  ready 
fer  'em,  suh,  ready  fer  'em  with  a  thousand  men 
— one  thousand  men,  suh,  right  hyeh  in  the  Gap 
— right  hyeh  in  the  Gap.  Let  'em  come  on — let 
'em  come  on !  "  Mayhall  began  to  rub  his  hands 
together  as  though  the  conflict  were  close  at 
hand,  and  the  mountaineer  slapped  one  thigh 
heartily.  "  Good  for  you  !  Give  'em  hell !  "  He 
was  about  to  slap  Mayhall  on  the  shoulder  and 
call  him  "  pardner,"  when  Flitter  Bill  coughed, 
and  Mayhall  lifted  his  chin. 

"Captain  Wells?  "said  Bill. 

"  Captain  Wells,"  repeated  Mayhall  with  a 
stiff  salutation,  and  the  messenger  from  over 
Black  Mountain  fell  back  with  an  apologetic 
laugh.  A  few  minutes  later  both  Mayhall  and 
Flitter  Bill  saw  him  shaking  his  head,  as  he 
started  homeward  toward  the  Gap.  Bill  laughed 
silently,  but  Mayhall  had  grown  grave.  The 

15 


THE   ARMY   OF   THE    CALLAHAIST 

fun  was  over  and  he  beckoned  Bill  inside  the 
store.  . 

"  Misto  Richmond,'/ he  said,  with  h.esitancy 
and  an  entire  change  of  tone  and  manner,  I*  I  am 
afeerd  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  able  to  pay  you  that 
little  amount  I  owe  you,  but  if  you  can  give  me  a 
little  mo'  time " 

"Captain  Wells,"  interrupted  Bill  slowly, 
and  again  Mayhall  stared  hard  at  him,  "  as  be 
twixt  friends,  as  have  been  pussonal  friends  fer 
nigh  onto  twenty  year,  I  hope  you  won't  men 
tion  that  little  matter  to  me  ag'in — until  I  men 
tions  it  to  you." 

"  But,  Misto  Richmond,  Hence  Sturgill  out 
thar  says  as  how  he  heerd  you  say  that  if  I  didn't 
pay " 

"  Captain  Wells,"  interrupted  Bill  again  and 
again  Mayhall  stared  hard — it  was  strange  that 
Bill  could  have  formed  the  habit  of  calling  him 
"  Captain  "  in  so  short  a  time — "  yestiddy  is  not 
to-day,  is  it  ?  And  to-day  is  not  to-morrow  ?  I 
axe  you — have  I  said  one  word  about  that  little 
matter  to-day?  Well,  borrow  not  from  yes 
tiddy  nor  to-morrow,  to  make  trouble  fer  to 
day.  There  is  other  things  fer  to-day,  Captain 
Wells." 
^Mayhall  turned  here/ 

"  Misto  Richmond,"she  said,  with  great  earn 
estness,  y  you  may  not  know  it,  but  three  times 

16 


THE   AEMY   OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

since  thet  long-legged  jay-hawker's  been  gone 
you  hev  plainly — and  if  my  ears  do  not  deceive 
me,  an'  they  never  hev — you  have  plainly  called 
me  *  Captain  Wells.'  I  knowed  yo'  little  trick 
whilst  he  was  hyeh,  fer  I  knowed  whut  the  feller 
had  come  to  tell  ye;  but  since  he's  been  gone, 
three  times,  Misto  Richmond " 

"  Yes, "/drawled  Bill,  with  an  unction  that 
was  strangely  sweet  to  Mayhall's  wondering 
ears,  "  an'  I  do  it  ag'in,}  Captain  Wells." 

"  An'  may  I  axe  you,"  said  Mayhall,  ruffling 
a  little,  "  may  I  axe  you — why  you " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Bill,  and  he  handed  over 
the  paper  that  he  held  in  his  hand. 

Mayhall  took  the  paper  and  looked  it  up  and 
down  helplessly — Flitter  Bill  slyly  watching 
him. 

Mayhall  handed  it  back.  u  If  you  please, 
Misto  Richmond — I  left  my  specs  at  home." 
Without  a  smile,  Bill  began.  It  was  an  order 
from  the  commandant  at  Cumberland  Gap, 
sixty  miles  farther  down  Powell's  Valley,  au 
thorizing  Mayhall  Wells  to  form  a  company  to 
guard  the  Gap  and  to  protect  the  property  of 
Confederate  citizens  in  the  valley;  and  a  com 
mission  of  captaincy  in  the  said  company  for  the 
said  Mayhall  Wells.  Mayhall's  mouth  wid 
ened  to  the  full  stretch  of  his  lean  jaws,  and, 
when  Bill  was  through  reading,  he  silently 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

reached  for  the  paper  and  looked  it  up  and  down 
and  over  and  over,  muttering : 

"  Well— well— well !  "  And  then  he  pointed 
silently  to  the  name  that  was  at  the  bottom  of 
the  paper. 

Bill  spelled  out  the  name : 

"  Jefferson  Davis''  and  Mayhall's  big  fingers 
trembled  as  he  pulled  them  away,  as  though 
to  avoid  further  desecration  of  that  sacred 
name. 

Then  he  rose,  and  a  magical  transformation 
began  that  can  be  likened — I  speak  with  rever 
ence — to  the  turning  of  water  into  wine.  Cap 
tain  Mayhall  Wells  raised  his  head,  set  his  chin 
well  in,  and  kept  it  there.  He  straightened  his 
shoulders,  and  kept  them  straight.  He  paced 
the  floor  with  a  tread  that  was  martial,  and  once 
he  stopped  before  the  door  with  his  right  hand 
thrust  under  his  breast-pocket,  and  with  wrin 
kling  brow  studied  the  hills.  It  was  a  new  man 
— with  the  water  in  his  blood  changed  to  wine — 
who  turned  suddenly  on  Flitter  Bill  Richmond: 

"  I  can  collect  a  vehy  large  force  in  a  vehy  few 
days."  Flitter  Bill  knew  that — that  he  could 
get  together  every  loafer  between  the  county-seat 
of  Wise  and  the  county-seat  of  Lee — but  he  only 
said  encouragingly : 

"Good!" 

"  An'  we  air  to  pertect  the  property — /  am  to 
18 


THE    ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

pertect  the  property  of  the  Confederate  citizens 
of  the  valley — that  means  you,  Misto  Rich 
mond,  and  this  store." 

Bill  nodded. 

Mayhall  coughed  slightly.  "  There  is  one 
thing  in  the  way,  I  opine.  Whar — I  axe  you — 
air  we  to  git  somethin'  to  eat  fer  my  com 
mand  ?  "  Bill  had  anticipated  this. 

"  I'll  take  keer  o'  that." 

Captain  Wells  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  Of  co'se,  of  co'se — you  are  a  soldier  and  a 
patriot — you  can  afford  to  feed  'em  as  a  slight 
return  fer  the  pertection  I  shall  give  you  and 
yourn." 

"  Certainly,"  agreed  Bill  dryly,  and  with  a 
prophetic  stir  of  uneasiness. 

"  Vehy — vehy  well.  I  shall  begin  now,  Misto 
Richmond."  And,  to  Flitter  Bill's  wonder,  the 
captain  stalked  out  to  the  stoop,  announced  his 
purpose  with  the  voice  of  an  auctioneer,  and 
called  for  volunteers  then  and  there.  There  was 
dead  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  there  was  a 
smile  here,  a  chuckle  there,  an  incredulous  laugh, 
and  Hence  Sturgill,  "  bully  of  the  Pocket,"  rose 
from  the  wagon-tongue,  closed  his  knife,  came 
slowly  forward,  and  cackled  his  scorn  straight 
jip  into  the  teeth  of  Captain  Mayhall  Wells. 
The  captain  looked  down  and  began  to  shed  his 
coat. 

19 


THE    AEMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

"  I  take  it,  Hence  Sturgill,  that  you  air  laugh- 
in'  at  me?  " 

"  I  am  a-laughin'  at  you,  Mayhall  Wells," 
he  said,  contemptuously,  but  he  was  sur 
prised  at  the  look  on  the  good-natured  giant's 
face. 

"  Captain  Mayhall  Wells,  ef  you  please." 

"  Plain  ole  Mayhall  Wells,"  said  Hence,  and 
Captain  Wells  descended  with  no  little  majesty 
and  "  biffed  "  him. 

The  delighted  crowd  rose  to  its  feet  and  gath 
ered  around.  Tallow  Dick  came  running  from 
the  barn.  It  was  biff — biff,  and  biff  again,  but 
not  nip  and  tuck  for  long.  Captain  Mayhall 
closed  in.  Hence  Sturgill  struck  the  earth  like 
a  Homeric  pine,  and  the  captain's  mighty  arm 
played  above  him  and  fell,  resounding.  In 
three  minutes  Hence,  to  the  amazement  of  the 
crowd,  roared: 

'"Nought" 

But  Mayhall  breathed  hard  and  said  quietly : 

"Captain  Wells!" 

Hence  shouted,  "Plain  ole—  But  the  cap 
tain's  huge  fist  was  poised  in  the  air  over  his  face. 

"  Captain  Wells,"  he  growled,  and  the  cap 
tain  rose  and  calmly  put  on  his  coat,  while  the 
crowd  looked  respectful,  and  Hence  Sturgill 
staggered  to  one  side,  as  though  beaten  in  spirit, 
strength,  and  wits  as  well.  The  captain  beck- 

20. 


I 


Captain  Weils  descended  with  no  little  majesty  and  "  biffed  "  him. 


THE    AEMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

orned  Flitter  Bill  inside  the  store.     His  manner 

distinct  savor  of  patronage. 
Misto  Richmond,"  he  said,  "  I  make  you — 
I  appoint  you,  by  the  authority  of  Jefferson 
Davis  and  the  Confederate  States  of  Ameriky, 
as  commissary-gineral  of  the  Army  of  the  Cal- 
lahan." 

"  As  what?  "  Bill's  eyes  blinked  at  the  as 
tounding  dignity  of  his  commission. 

"  Gineral  Richmond,  I  shall  not  repeat  them 
words."  And  he  didn't,  but  rose  and  made  his 
way  toward  his  old  gray  mare.  Tallow  Dick 
held  his  bridle. 

"  Dick,"  he  said  jocosely,  "  goin'  to  run  away 
ag'in?"  The  negro  almost  paled,  and  then, 
with  a  look  at  a  blacksnake  whip  that  hung  on 
the  barn  door,  grinned. 

"  No,  suh — no,  suh — 'deed  I  ain't,  suh — no 


mo'." 


Mounted,  the  captain  dropped  a  three-cent 
silver  piece  in  the  startled  negro's  hand.  Then 
he  vouchsafed  the  wondering  Flitter  Bill  and  the 
gaping  crowd  a  military  salute  and  started  for 
the  yawning  mouth  of  the  Gap — riding  with  \ 
shoulders  squared  and  chin  well  in — riding  as 
should  ride  the  commander  of  the  Army  of  the 
Callahan. 

Flitter  Bill  dropped  his  blinking  eyes  to  the 
paper  in  his  hand  that  bore  the  commission  of 
21 


THE   AEMY   OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Confederate  States  of 
America  to  Mayhall  Wells  of  Callahan,  and 
went  back  into  his  store.  He  looked  at  it  a  long 
time  and  then  he  laughed,  but  without  much 
mirth. 


22 


II 

GRASS  had  little  chance  to  grow  for  three 
weeks  thereafter  under  the  cowhide  boots 
of  Captain  Mayhall  Wells.  When  the  twen 
tieth  morning  came  over  the  hills,  the  mist 
parted  over  the  Stars  and  Bars  floating  from 
the  top  of  a  tall  poplar  up  through  the  Gap  and 
flaunting  brave  defiance  to  Black  Tom,  his  Har- 
lan  Home  Guard,  and  all  other  jay-hawking 
Unionists  of  the  Kentucky  hills.  It  parted  over 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan  asleep  on  its  arms  in 
the  mouth  of  the  chasm,  over  Flitter  Bill  sitting, 
sullen  and  dejected,  on  the  stoop  of  his  store; 
and  over  Tallow  Dick  stealing  corn  bread  from 
the  kitchen  to  make  ready  for  flight  that  night 
through  the  Gap,  the  mountains,  and  to  the  yel 
low  river  that  was  the  Mecca  of  the  runaway 
slave. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Gap  a  ragged  private 
stood  before  a  ragged  tent,  raised  a  long  dinner 
horn  to  his  lips,  and  a  mighty  blast  rang  through 
the  hills,  reveille !  And  out  poured  the  Army 
of  the  Callahan  from  shack,  rock-cave,  and  cov 
erts  of  sticks  and  leaves,  with  squirrel  rifles, 
23 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAST 

Revolutionary  muskets,  shotguns,  clasp-knives, 
and  horse  pistols  for  the  duties  of  the  day 
under  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  tactician,  and  Lieu 
tenant  Boggs,  quondam  terror  of  Roaring 
Fork. 

That  blast  rang  down  the  valley  into  Flitter 
Bill's  ears  and  startled  him  into  action.  It 
brought  Tallow  Dick's  head  out  of  the  barn 
door  and  made  him  grin. 

"  Dick!  "  Flitter  Bill's  call  was  sharp  and 
angry. 

"Yes,  suh!" 

"  Go  tell  ole  Mayhall  Wells  that  I  ain't  goin' 
to  send  him  nary  another  pound  o'  bacon  an' 

nary  another  tin  cup  o'  meal — no,  by  ,  I 

ain't." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  negro  stood  before  the 
ragged  tent  of  the  commander  of  the  Army  of 
the  Callahan. 

"  Marse  Bill  say  he  ain't  gwine  to  sen'  you 
no  mo'  rations — no  mo'." 

"  What  I " 

Tallow  Dick  repeated  his  message  and  the 
captain  scowled — mutiny ! 

"  Fetch  my  hoss !  "  he  thundered. 

Very  naturally  and  very  swiftly  had  the  trou 
ble  come,  for  straight  after  the  captain's  fight 
with  Hence  Sturgill  there  had  been  a  mighty 
rally  to  the  standard  of  Mayhall  Wells.  From 
24 


THE   ARMY   OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

Pigeon's  Creek  the  loafers  came — from  Roaring 
Fork,  Cracker's  Neck,  from  the  Pocket  down 
the  valley,  and  from  Turkey  Cove.  Recruits 
came  so  fast,  and  to  such  proportions  grew  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan,  that  Flitter  Bill  shrewdly 
suggested  at  once  that  Captain  Wells  divide  it 
into  three  companies  and  put  one  up  Pigeon's 
Creek  under  Lieutenant  Jim  Skaggs  and  one  on 
Callahan  under  Lieutenant  Tom  Boggs,  while 
the  captain,  with  a  third,  should  guard  the  mouth 
of  the  Gap.  Bill's  idea  was  to  share  with  those 
districts  the  honor  of  his  commissary-general 
ship  ;  but  Captain  Wells  crushed  the  plan  like  a 
dried  puffball. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  fine  sarcasm.  "  What 
will  them  Kanetuckians  do  then?  Don't  you 
know,  Gineral  Richmond?  Why,  I'll  tell  you 
what  they'll  do.  They'll  jest  swoop  down  on 
Lieutenant  Boggs  and  gobble  him  up.  Then 
they'll  swoop  down  on  Lieutenant  Skaggs  on 
Pigeon  and  gobble  him  up.  Then  they'll  swoop 
down  on  me  and  gobble  me  up.  No,  they  won't 
gobble  me  up,  but  they'll  come  damn  nigh  it. 
An'  what  kind  of  a  report  will  I  make  to  Jeff 
Davis,  Gineral  Richmond  ?  Captured  in  detail, 
suh?  No,  suK.  I'll  jest  keep  Lieutenant  Boggs 
and  Lieutenant  Skaggs  close  by  me,  and  we'll 
pitch  our  camp  right  here  in  the  Gap  whar  we 
can  pertect  the  property  of  Confederate  citizens 
25 


THE    AEMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

and  be  close  to  our  base  o'  supplies,  suh.  That's 
what  I'll  do!" 

"  Gineral  Richmond  "  groaned,  and  when  in 
the  next  breath  the  mighty  captain  casually 
inquired  if  that  uniform  of  his  had  come  yet, 
Flitter  Bill's  fat  body  nearly  rolled  off  his 
chair. 

*  You  will  please  have  it  here  next  Monday," 
said  the  captain,  with  great  firmness.  "  It  is 
necessary  to  the  proper  discipline  of  my  troops." 
And  it  was  there  the  following  Monday — a  regi 
mental  coat,  gray  jeans  trousers,  and  a  forage 
cap  that  Bill  purchased  from  a  passing  Morgan 
raider.  Daily  orders  would  come  from  Captain 
Wells  to  General  Flitter  Bill  Richmond  to  send 
up  more  rations,  and  Bill  groaned  afresh  when 
a  man  from  Callahan  told  how  the  captain's 
family  was  sprucing  up  on  meal  and  flour  and 
bacon  from  the  captain's  camp.  Humiliation 
followed.  It  had  never  occurred  to  Captain 
Wells  that  being  a  captain  made  it  incongruous 
for  him  to  have  a  "  general  "  under  him,  until 
Lieutenant  Skaggs,  who  had  picked  up  a  manual 
of  tactics  somewhere,  cautiously  communicated 
his  discovery.  Captain  Wells  saw  the  point  at 
once.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do — to  re 
duce  General  Richmond  to  the  ranks — and  it 
was  done.  Technically,  thereafter,  the  general 
was  purveyor  for  the  Army  of  the  Callahan,  but 

26 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

to  the  captain  himself  he  was — gallingly  to  the 
purveyor — simple  Flitter  Bill. 

The  strange  thing  was  that,  contrary  to  his 
usual  shrewdness,  it  should  have  taken  Flitter 
Bill  so  long  to  see  that  the  difference  between 
having  his  store  robbed  by  the  Kentucky  jay*- 
hawkers  and  looted  by  Captain  Wells  was  the 
difference  between  tweedle-dum  and  tweedle-dee, 
but,  when  he  did  see,  he  forged  a  plan  of  relief 
at  once.  When  the  captain  sent  down  Lieuten 
ant  Boggs  for  a  supply  of  rations,  Bill  sent  the 
saltiest,  rankest  bacon  he  could  find,  with  a  mes 
sage  that  he  wanted  to  see  the  great  man.  As 
before,  when  Captain  Wells  rode  down  to  the 
store,  Bill  handed  out  a  piece  of  paper,  and,  as 
before,  the  captain  had  left  his  "specs"  at  home. 
The  paper  was  an  order  that,  whereas  the  dis 
tinguished  services  of  Captain  Wells  to  the  Con 
federacy  were  appreciated  by  Jefferson  Davis, 
the  said  Captain  Wells  was,  and  is,  hereby  em 
powered  to  duly,  and  in  accordance  with  the  tac 
tics  of  war,  impress  what  live-stock  he  shall  see 
fit  and  determine  fit  for  the  good  of  his  com 
mand.  The  news  was  joy  to  the  Army  of  the 
Callahan.  Before  it  had  gone  the  rounds  of  the 
camp  Lieutenant  Boggs  had  spied  a  fat  heifer 
browsing  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  ordered 
her  surrounded  and  driven  down.  Without  an 
other  word,  when  she  was  close  enough,  he 
27 


THE   AEMY   OF   TME    CALLAHAN 

raised  his  gun  and  would  have  shot  her  dead  in 
her  tracks  had  he  not  been  arrested  by  a  yell  of 
command  and  horror  from  his  superior. 

"  Air  you  a-goin'  to  have  me  cashiered  and 
shot,  Lieutenant  Boggs,  fer  violatin'  the  tick- 
tacks  of  war?  "  roared  the  captain,  indignantly. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  I've  got  to  impress  that 
heifer  accordin'  to  the  rules  an'  regulations?  Git 
roun'  that  heifer."  The  men  surrounded  her. 
"  Take  her  by  the  horns.  Now !  In  the  name 
of  Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Confederate  States 
of  Ameriky,  I  hereby  and  hereon  do  duly  im 
press  this  heifer  for  the  purposes  and  use  of  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan,  so  help  me  God !  Shoot 
her  down,  Bill  Boggs,  shoot  her  down !  " 

Now,  naturally,  the  soldiers  preferred  fresh 
meat,  and  they  got  it — impressing  cattle,  sheep, 
and  hogs,  geese,  chickens,  and  ducks,  vegetables 
— nothing  escaped  the  capacious  maw  of  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan.  It  was  a  beautiful  idea, 
and  the  success  of  it  pleased  Flitter  Bill  mightily, 
but  the  relief  did  not  last  long.  An  indignant 
murmur  rose  up  and  down  valley  and  creek  bot 
tom  against  the  outrages,  and  one  angry  old  far 
mer  took  a  pot-shot  at  Captain  Wells  with  a 
squirrel  rifle,  clipping  the  visor  of  his  forage 
cap ;  and  from  that  day  the  captain  began  to  call 
with  immutable  regularity  again  on  Flitter  Bill 
for  bacon  and  meal.  That  morning  the  last 
28 


THE   AEMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN" 

straw  fell  in  a  demand  for  a  wagon-load  of  ra 
tions  to  be  delivered  before  noon,  and,  worn  to 
the  edge  of  his  patience,  Bill  had  sent  a  reckless 
refusal.  And  now  he  was  waiting  on  the  stoop 
of  his  store,  looking  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gap 
and  waiting  for  it  to  give  out  into  the  valley  Cap 
tain  Wells  and  his  old  gray  mare.  And  at  last, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  there  was  the  captain  com 
ing — coming  at  a  swift  gallop — and  Bill  steeled 
himself  for  the  onslaught  like  a  knight  in  a  joust 
against  a  charging  antagonist.  The  captain  sa 
luted  stiffly — pulling  up  sharply  and  making  no 
move  to  dismount. 

"  Purveyor,"  he  said,  "  Black  Tom  has  just 
sent  word  that  he's  a-comin'  over  hyeh  this  week 
— have  you  heerd  that,  purveyor?  "  Bill  was 
silent. 

"  Black  Tom  says  you  air  responsible  for  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan.  Have  you  heerd  that, 
purveyor?  "  Still  was  there  silence. 

"  He  says  he's  a-goin'  to  hang  me  to  that  pop 
lar  whar  floats  them  Stars  and  Bars  " — Captain 
Mayhall  Wells  chuckled — "  an'  he  says  he's 
a-goin'  to  hang  you  thar  fust,  though;  have  you 
heerd  that,  purveyor?  " 

The  captain  dropped  the  titular  address  now, 
and  threw  one  leg  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 

"  Flitter  Bill  Richmond,"  he  said,  with  great 
nonchalance,  "  I  axe  you — do  you  prefer  that  I 
29 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

should  disband  the  Army  of  the  Callahan,  or  do 
you  not?  " 

"  No." 

The  captain  was  silent  a  full  minute,  and  his 
face  grew  stern.  "  Flitter  Bill  Richmond,  I 
had  no  idee  o'  disbandin'  the  Army  of  the  Calla 
han,  but  do  you  know  what  I  did  aim  to  do?  " 
Again  Bill  was  silent. 

"  Well,  suh,  I'll  tell  you  whut  I  aim  to  do. 
If  you  don't  send  them  rations  I'll  have  you 
cashiered  for  mutiny,  an'  if  Black  Tom  don't 
hang  you  to  that  air  poplar,  I'll  hang  you  thar 

myself,  suh;  yes,  by !  I  will.  Dick!  "  he 

called  sharply  to  the  slave.  "  Hitch  up  that  air 
wagon,  fill  hit  full  o'  bacon  and  meal,  and  drive 
it  up  thar  to  my  tent.  An'  be  mighty  damn 
quick  about  it,  or  I'll  hang  you,  too." 

The  negro  gave  a  swift  glance  to  his  master, 
and  Flitter  Bill  feebly  waved  acquiescence. 

"  Purveyor,  I  wish  you  good-day." 

Bill  gazed  after  the  great  captain  in  dazed 
wonder  (was  this  the  man  who  had  come  cring 
ing  to  him  only  a  few  short  weeks  ago?)  and 
groaned  aloud. 

But  for  lucky  or  unlucky  coincidence,  how 
could  the  prophet  ever  have  gained  name  and 
fame  on  earth? 

Captain  Wells  rode  back  to  camp  chuckling — 

3° 


THE   ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

chuckling  with  satisfaction  and  pride;  but  the 
chuckle  passed  when  he  caught  sight  of  his  tent. 
In  front  of  it  were  his  lieutenants  and  some  half 
a  dozen  privates,  all  plainly  in  great  agitation, 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  stood  the  lank  messen 
ger  who  had  brought  the  first  message  from 
Black  Tom,  delivering  another  from  the  same 
source.  Black  Tom  was  coming,  coming  sure, 
and  unless  that  flag,  that  "  Rebel  rag,"  were 
hauled  down  under  twenty-four  hours,  Black 
Tom  would  come  over  and  pull  it  down,  and  to 
that  same  poplar  hang  "  Captain  Mayhall  an' 
his  whole  damn  army."  Black  Tom  might  do 
it  anyhow — just  for  fun. 

While  the  privates  listened  the  captain 
strutted  and  swore;  then  he  rested  his  hand  on 
his  hip  and  smiled  with  silent  sarcasm,  and  then 
swore  again — while  the  respectful  lieutenants 
and  the  awed  soldiery  of  the  Callahan  looked  on. 
Finally  he  spoke. 

"  Ah— when  did  Black  Tom  say  that?"  he 
inquired  casually. 

"  Yestiddy  mornin'.  He  said  he  was  goin'  to 
start  over  hyeh  early  this  morninV  The  cap 
tain  whirled. 

"  What?  Then  why  didn't  you  git  over  hyeh 
this  mornin'?  " 

"  Couldn't  git  across  the  river  last  night." 

;t  Then  he's  a-comin'  to-day?  " 

31 


THE   ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"  I  reckon  Black  Tom'll  be  hyeh  in  about  two 
hours — mebbe  he  ain't  fer  away  now."  The 
captain  was  startled. 

"  Lieutenant  Skaggs,"  he  called,  sharply,  "  git 
yo'  men  out  thar  an'  draw  'em  up  in  two  rows !  " 

The  face  of  the  student  of  military  tactics 
looked  horrified.  The  captain  in  his  excitement 
had  relaxed  into  language  that  was  distinctly 
agricultural,  and,  catching  the  look  on  his  subor 
dinate's  face,  and  at  the  same  time  the  reason 
for  it,  he  roared,  indignantly: 

"Air  you  afeer'd,  sir?  Git  yo'  men  out,  I 
said,  an'  march  'em  up  thar  in  front  of  the  Gap. 
Lieutenant  Boggs,  take  ten  men  an'  march  at 
double  quick  through  the  Gap,  an'  defend  that 
poplar  with  yo'  life's  blood.  If  you  air  over 
whelmed  by  superior  numbers,  fall  back,  suh, 
step  by  step,  until  you  air  re-enforced  by  Lieuten 
ant  Skaggs.  If  you  two  air  not  able  to  hold  the 
enemy  in  check,  you  may  count  on  me  an'  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan  to  grind  him — "  (How 
the  captain,  now  thoroughly  aroused  to  all  the 
fine  terms  of  war^  did  roll  that  technical  "  him  " 
under  his  tongue) — "  to  grind  him  to  pieces 
ag'in  them  towerin'  rocks,  and  plunge  him  in  the 
bilin'  waters  of  Roarin'  Fawk.  Forward,  suh 
— double  quick."  Lieutenant  Skaggs  touched 
his  cap.  Lieutenant  Boggs  looked  embarrassed 
and  strode  nearer. 

32 


THE   AEMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN" 

"  Captain,  whar  am  I  goin'  to  git  ten  men  to 
face  them  Kanetuckians  ?  " 

"  Whar  air  they  goin'  to  git  a  off'cer  to  lead 
'em,  you'd  better  say,"  said  the  captain,  severely, 
fearing  that  some  of  the  soldiers  had  heard  the 
question.  "  If  you  air  afeer'd,  suh  " — and  then 
he  saw  that  no  one  had  heard,  and  he  winked — 
winked  with  most  unmilitary  familiarity. 

"  Air  you  a  good  climber,  Lieutenant 
Boggs?"  Lieutenant  Boggs  looked  mystified, 
but  he  said  he  was. 

"  Lieutenant  Boggs,  I  now  give  you  the  op 
portunity  to  show  yo'  profound  knowledge  of 
the  ticktacks  of  war.  You  may  now  be  guilty 
of  disobedience  of  ordahs,  and  I  will  not  have 
you  court-martialled  for  the  same.  In  other 
words,  if,  after  a  survey  of  the  situation,  you 
think  best — why,"  the  captain's  voice  dropped 
to  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  pull  that  flag  down,  Lieu 
tenant  Boggs,  pull  her  down." 


33 


Ill 

IT  was  an  hour  by  sun  now.  Lieutenant 
Boggs  and  his  devoted  band  of  ten  were 
making  their  way  slowly  and  watchfully  up  the 
mighty  chasm — the  lieutenant  with  his  hand  on 
his  sword  and  his  head  bare,  and  bowed  in 
thought.  The  Kentuckians  were  on  their  way 
— at  that  moment  they  might  be  riding  full  speed 
toward  the  mouth  of  Pigeon,  where  floated  the 
flag.  They  might  gobble  him  and  his  com 
mand  up  when  they  emerged  from  the  Gap. 
Suppose  they  caught  him  up  that  tree.  His 
command  might  escape,  but  he  would  be  up 
there,  saving  them  the  trouble  of  stringing  him 
up.  All  they  would  have  to  do  would  be  to  send 
up  after  him  a  man  with  a  rope,  and  let  him 
drop.  That  was  enough.  Lieutenant  Boggs 
called  a  halt  and  explained  the  real  purpose  of 
the  expedition. 

"We  will  wait  here  till  dark,"  he  said,  "  so 
them  Kanetuckians  can't  ketch  us,  whilst  we  are 
climbing  that  tree." 

And  so  they  waited  opposite  Bee  Rock,  which 
was  making  ready  to  blossom  with  purple  rho- 
34 


THE    AEMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

dodendrons.  And  the  reserve  back  in  the  Gap, 
under  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  waited.  Waited,  too, 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Gap,  and  waited  restlessly  Captain  Wells  at  the 
door  of  his  tent,  and  Flitter  Bill  on  the  stoop  of 
his  store — waited  everybody  but  Tallow  Dick, 
who,  in  the  general  confusion,  was  slipping 
through  the  rhododendrons  along  the  bank  of 
Roaring  Fork,  until  he  could  climb  the  moun 
tain-side  and  slip  through  the  Gap  high  over 
the  army's  head. 

What  could  have  happened? 

When  dusk  was  falling,  Captain  Wells  dis 
patched  a  messenger  to  Lieutenant  Skaggs  and 
his  reserve,  and  got  an  answer;  Lieutenant 
Skaggs  feared  that  Boggs  had  been  captured 
without  the  firing  of  a  single  shot — but  the  flag 
was  floating  still.  An  hour  later,  Lieutenant 
Skaggs  sent  another  message — he  could  not  see 
the  flag.  Captain  Wells  answered,  stoutly: 

"  Hold  yo'  own." 

And  so,  as  darkness  fell,  the  Army  of  the  Cal 
lahan  waited  in  the  strain  of  mortal  expectancy 
as  one  man;  and  Flitter  Bill  waited,  with  his 
horse  standing  saddled  in  the  barn,  ready  for 
swift  flight.  And,  as  darkness  fell,  Tallow 
Dick  was  cautiously  picking  his  way  alongside 
the  steep  wall  of  the  Gap  toward  freedom,  and 
picking  it  with  stealthy  caution,  foot  by  foot; 

35 


THE   ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

for  up  there,  to  this  day,  big  loose  rocks  mount 
halfway  to  the  jagged  points  of  the  black  cliffs, 
and  a  careless  step  would  have  detached  one  and 
sent  an  avalanche  of  rumbling  stones  down  to 
betray  him.  A  single  shot  rang  suddenly  out 
far  up  through  the  Gap,  and  the  startled  negro 
sprang  forward,  slipped,  and,  with  a  low,  fright 
ened  oath,  lay  still.  Another  shot  followed, 
and  another.  Then  a  hoarse  murmur  rose, 
loudened  into  thunder,  and  ended  in  a  frightful 
— boom !  One  yell  rang  from  the  army's  throat : 

"  The  Kentuckians!  The  Kentuckians!  The 
wild,  long-haired,  terrible  Kentuckians !  " 

Captain  Wells  sprang  into  the  air. 

u  My  God,  they've  got  a  cannon !  " 

Then  there  was  a  martial  chorus — the  crack 
of  rifle,  the  hoarse  cough  of  horse-pistol,  the 
roar  of  old  muskets. 

"Bing!  Bang!  Boom!  Bing — bing!  Bang 
— bang !  Boom — boom !  Bing — bang — boom !  " 

Lieutenant  Skaggs  and  his  reserves  heard  the 
beat  of  running  feet  down  the  Gap. 

"  They've  gobbled  Boggs,"  he  said,  and  the 
reserve  rushed  after  him  as  he  fled.  The  army 
heard  the  beat  of  their  coming  feet. 

"  They've  gobbled  Skaggs,"  the  army  said. 

Then  was  there  bedlam  as  the  army  fled — a 
crashing  through  bushes — a  splashing  into  the 
river,  the  rumble  of  mule  wagons,  yells  of  ter- 

36 


THE    ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

ror,  swift  flying  shapes  through  the  pale  moon 
light.  Flitter  Bill  heard  the  din  as  he  stood  by 
his  barn  door. 

"  They've  gobbled  the  army,"  said  Flitter 
Bill,  and  he,  too,  fled  like  a  shadow  down  the 
valley. 

Nature  never  explodes  such  wild  and  senseless 
energy  as  when  she  lets  loose  a  mob  in  a  panic. 
With  the  army,  it  was  each  man  for  himself  and 
devil  take  the  hindmost;  and  the  flight  of  the 
army  was  like  a  flight  from  the  very  devil  him 
self.  Lieutenant  Boggs,  whose  feet  were  the 
swiftest  in  the  hills,  outstripped  his  devoted 
band.  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  being  fat  and  slow, 
fell  far  behind  his  reserve,  and  dropped  ex 
hausted  on  a  rock  for  a  moment  to  get  his  breath. 
As  he  rose,  panting,  to  resume  flight,  a  figure 
bounded  out  of  the  darkness  behind  him,  and  he 
gathered  it  in  silently  and  went  with  it  to  the 
ground,  where  both  fought  silently  in  the  dust 
until  they  rolled  into  the  moonlight  and  each 
looked  the  other  in  the  face. 

"  That  you,  Jim  Skaggs?  " 

"  That  you,  Tom  Boggs?  " 

Then  the  two  lieutenants  rose  swiftly,  but  a 
third  shape  bounded  into  the  road — a  gigantic 
figure— Black  Tom !  With  a  startled  yell  they 
gathered  him  in — one  by  the  waist,  the  other 
about  the  neck,  and,  for  a  moment,  the  terrible 

37 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

Kehtuckian — it  could  be  none  other — swung  the 
two  clear  of  the  ground,  but  the  doughty  lieuten 
ants  hung  to  him.  Boggs  trying  to  get  his  knife 
and  Skaggs  his  pistol,  and  all  went  down  in  a 
heap. 

"I  surrender — I  surrender!"  It  was  the 
giant  who  spoke,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  voice 
both  men  ceased  to  struggle,  and,  strange  to  say, 
no  one  of  the  three  laughed. 

"  Lieutenant  Boggs,"  said  Captain  Wells, 
thickly,  "  take  yo'  thumb  out  o'  my  mouth.  Lieu 
tenant  Skaggs,  leggo  my  leg  an'  stop  bitin'  me." 

«  Sh— sh— sh— "  said  all  three. 

The  faint  swish  of  bushes  as  Lieutenant 
Boggs's  ten  men  scuttled  into  the  brush  behind 
them — the  distant  beat  of  the  army's  feet  get 
ting  fainter  ahead  of  them,  and  then  silence — 
dead,  dead  silence. 

"Sh— sh— sh!" 


With  the  red  streaks  of  dawn  Captain  May- 
hall  Wells  was  pacing  up  and  down  in  front  of 
Flitter  Bill's  store,  a  gaping  crowd  about  him, 
and  the  shattered  remnants  of  the  army  drawn 
up  along  Roaring  Fork  in  the  rear.  An  hour 
later  Flitter  Bill  rode  calmly  in. 

"  I  stayed  all  night  down  the  valley,"  said 
Flitter  Bill.  "  Uncle  Jim  Richmond  was  sick. 

38 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

I  hear  you  had  some  trouble  last  night,  Captain 
Wells."  The  captain  expanded  his  chest. 

"  Trouble!  "  he  repeated,  sarcastically.  And 
then  he  told  how  a  charging  horde  of  dare 
devils  had  driven  him  from  camp  with  over 
whelming  numbers  and  one  piece  of  artillery; 
how  he  had  rallied  the  army  and  fought  them 
back,  foot  by  foot,  and  put  them  to  fearful  rout ; 
how  the  army  had  fallen  back  again  just  when 
the  Kentuckians  were  running  like  sheep,  and 
how  he  himself  had  stayed  in  the  rear  with  Lieu 
tenant  Boggs  and  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  "  to  cover 
their  retreat,  suh,"  and  how  the  purveyor,  if 
he  would  just  go  up  through  the  Gap,  would 
doubtless  find  the  cannon  that  the  enemy  had 
left  behind  in  their  flight  It  was  just  while  he 
was  thus  telling  the  tale  for  the  twentieth  time 
that  two  figures  appeared  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill  and  drew  near — Hence  Sturgill  on  horse 
back  and  Tallow  Dick  on  foot. 

"  I  ketched  this  nigger  in  my  corn-fieP  this 
mornin',"  said  Hence,  simply,  and  Flitter  Bill 
glared,  and  without  a  word  went  for  the 
blacksnake  ox-whip  that  hung  by  the  barn 
door. 

For  the  twenty-first  time  Captain  Wells 
started  his  tale  again,  and  with  every  pause  that 
he  made  for  breath  Hence  cackled  scorn. 

"  An1,  Hence  Sturgill,  ef  you  will  jus*  go  up 
39 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

in  the  Gap  you'll  find  a  cannon,  captured,  suh, 
by  me  an'  the  Army  of  the  Callahan,  an' " 

"  Cannon !  "  Hence  broke  in.  "  Speak  up, 
nigger!  "  And  Tallow  Dick  spoke  up — grin 
ning: 

"  I  done  it!" 

"  What!  "  shouted  Flitter  Bill. 

"  I  kicked  a  rock  loose  climbin'  over  Calla- 
han's  Nose." 

Bill  dropped  his  whip  with  a  chuckle  of  pure 
ecstasy.  Mayhall  paled  and  stared.  The  crowd 
roared,  the  Army  of  the  Callahan  grinned,  and 
Hence  climbed  back  on  his  horse. 

"  Mayhall  Wells,"  he  said,  "  plain  ole  May- 
hall  Wells,  I'll  see  you  on  Couht  Day.  I  ain't 
got  time  now." 

And  he  rode  away. 


40 


OH 

CO 


IV 

THAT  day  Captain  Mayhall  Wells  and  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan  were  in  disrepute. 
Next  day  the  awful  news  of  Lee's  surrender 
came.  Captain  Wells  refused  to  believe  it,  and 
still  made  heroic  effort  to  keep  his  shattered  com 
mand  together.  Looking  for  recruits  on  Court 
Day,  he  was  twitted  about  the  rout  of  the  army 
by  Hence  Sturgill,  whose  long-coveted  chance  to 
redeem  himself  had  come.  Again,  as  several 
times  before,  the  captain  declined  to  fight — his 
health  was  essential  to  the  general  well-being — 
but  Hence  laughed  in  his  face,  and  the  captain 
had  to  face  the  music,  though  the  heart  of  him 
was  gone. 

He  fought  well,  for  he  was  fighting  for  his 
all,  and  he  knew  it.  He  could  have  whipped 
with  ease,  and  he  did  whip,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
thoroughbred  was  not  in  Captain  Mayhall 
Wells.  He  had  Sturgill  down,  but  Hence  sank 
his  teeth  into  Mayhall's  thigh  while  Mayhall's 
hands  grasped  his  opponent's  throat.  The  cap 
tain  had  only  to  squeeze,  as  every  rough-and- 
tumble  fighter  knew,  and  endure  his  pain  until 
41 


THE    ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

Hence  would  have  to  give  in.  But  Mayhall 
was  not  built  to  endure.  He  roared  like  a  bull 
as  soon  as  the  teeth  met  in  his  flesh,  his  fingers 
relaxed,  and  to  the  disgusted  surprise  of  every 
body  he  began  to  roar  with  great  distinctness  and 
agony : 

"'Nough!    'Nough!" 

The  end  was  come,  and  nobody  knew  it  better 
than  Mayhall  Wells.  He  rode  home  that  night 
with  hands  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle 
and  his  beard  crushed  by  his  chin  against  his 
breast.  For  the  last  time,  next  morning  he  rode 
down  to  Flitter  Bill's  store.  On  the  way  he  met 
Parson  Kilburn  and  for  the  last  time  Mayhall 
Wells  straightened  his  shoulders  and  for  one 
moment  more  resumed  his  part :  perhaps  the  par 
son  had  not  heard  of  his  fall. 

"  Good-mornin',  parsing,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 
"  Ah — where  have  you  been?  "  The  parson  was 
returning  from  Cumberland  Gap,  whither  he 
had  gone  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance. 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  something  here  for  you 
which  Flitter  Bill  asked  me  to  give  you.  He 
said  it  was  from  the  commandant  at  Cumberland 
Gap." 

"  Fer  me?  "  asked  the  captain — hope  spring 
ing  anew  in  his  heart.  The  parson  handed 
him  a  letter.  Mayhall  looked  at  it  upside 
down. 

42 


THE   ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"  If  you  please,  parsing,"  he  said,  handing  it 
back,  "  I  hev  left  my  specs  at  home." 

The  parson  read  that,  whereas  Captain  Wells 
had  been  guilty  of  grave  misdemeanors  while  in 
command  of  the  Army  of  the  Callahan,  he 
should  be  arrested  and  court-martialled  for  the 
same,  or  be  given  the  privilege  of  leaving  the 
county  in  twenty-four  hours.  Mayhall's  face 
paled  a  little  and  he  stroked  his  beard. 

"  Ah — does  anybody  but  you  know  about  this 
ordah,  parsing?  " 

"  Nobody." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  do  me  the  great  favor, 
parsing,  of  not  mentioning  it  to  nary  a  living 
soul — as  fer  me  and  my  ole  gray  boss  and  my 
household  furniture — we'll  be  in  Kanetuck  afore 
daybreak  to-morrow  mornin' !  "  And  he  was. 

But  he  rode  on  just  then  and  presented  him 
self  for  the  last  time  at  the  store  of  Flitter  Bill. 
Bill  was  sitting  on  the  stoop  in  his  favorite  pos 
ture.  And  in  a  moment  there  stood  before  him 
plain  Mayhall  Wells — holding  out  the  order 
Bill  had  given  the  parson  that  day. 

"  Misto  Richmond,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come 
to  tell  you  good-by." 

Now  just  above  the  selfish  layers  of  fat  under 

Flitter  Bill's  chubby  hands  was  a  very  kind  heart. 

When  he  saw  Mayhall's  old  manner  and  heard 

the  old  respectful  way  of  address,  and  felt  the 

43 


THE    AEMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

dazed  helplessness  of  the  big,  beaten  man,  the 
heart  thumped. 

"  I  am  sorry  about  that  little  amount  I  owe 

you;  I  think  I'll  be  able  shortly—"     But  Bill 

cut   him   short.     Mayhall   Wells,   beaten,    dis- 

j  graced,  driven  from  home  on  charge  of  petty 

i  crimes,  of  which  he  was  undoubtedly  guilty,  but 

I  for  which  Bill  knew  he  himself  was  responsible 

— Mayhall  on  his  way  into  exile  and  still  per* 

suading  himself  and,   at  that  moment,  almost 

persuading  him  that  he  meant  to  pay  that  little 

debt  of  long  ago — was  too  much  for  Flitter  Bill, 

and  he  proceeded  to  lie — lying  with  deliberation 

and  pleasure. 

"  Captain  Wells,"  he  said — and  the  emphasis 
on  the  title  was  balm  to  Mayhall's  soul — "  you 
have  protected  me  in  time  of  war,  an'  you  air 
welcome  to  yo'  uniform  an'  you  air  welcome  to 
that  little  debt.  Yes,"  he  went  on,  reaching 
down  into  his  pocket  and  pulling  out  a  roll  of 
bills,  "  I  tender  you  in  payment  for  that  same 
protection  the  regular  pay  of  a  officer  in  the 
Confederate  service  " — and  he  handed  out  the 
army  pay  for  three  months  in  Confederate 
greenbacks — "  an'  five  dollars  in  money  of  the 
United  States,  of  which  I  an',  doubtless,  you, 
suh,  air  true  and  loyal  citizens.  Captain  Wells, 
I  bid  you  good-by  an'  I  wish  ye  well — I  wish  ye 
well." 

44 


THE   ARMY    OF   THE    CALLAHAN 

From  the  stoop  of  his  store  Bill  watched  the 
captain  ride  away,  drooping  at  the  shoulders, 
and  with  his  hands  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle — his  dim  blue  eyes  misty,  the  jaunty  for 
age  cap  a  mockery  of  his  iron-gray  hair,  and  the 
flaps  of  his  coat  fanning  either  side  like  mourn 
ful  wings. 

And  Flitter  Bill  muttered  to  himself: 

"  Atter  he's  gone  long  enough  fer  these  things 
to  blow  over,  I'm  going  to  bring  him  back  and 
give  him  another  chance — yes,  damme  if  I  don't 
git  him  back." 

And  Bill  dropped  his  remorseful  eye  to  the 
order  in  his  hand.  Like  the  handwriting  of  the 
order  that  lifted  Mayhall  like  magic  into  power, 
the  handwriting  of  this  order,  that  dropped  him 
like  a  stone — was  Flitter  Bill's  own. 


45 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

THE  missionary  was  young  and  she  was 
from  the  North.  Her  brows  were 
straight,  her  nose  was  rather  high,  and  her  eyes 
were  clear  and  gray.  The  upper  lip  of  her  little 
mouth  was  so  short  that  the  teeth  just  under  it 
were  never  quite  concealed.  It  was  the  mouth 
of  a  child  and  it  gave  the  face,  with  all  its 
strength  and  high  purpose,  a  peculiar  pathos  that 
no  soul  in  that  little  mountain  town  had  the 
power  to  see  or  feel.  A  yellow  mule  was  hitched 
to  the  rickety  fence  in  front  of  her  and  she  stood 
on  the  stoop  of  a  little  white  frame-house  with 
an  elm  switch  between  her  teeth  and  gloves  on 
her  hands,  which  were  white  and  looked  strong. 
The  mule  wore  a  man's  saddle,  but  no  matter — 
the  streets  were  full  of  yellow  pools,  the  mud 
was  ankle-deep,  and  she  was  on  her  way  to  the 
sick-bed  of  Becky  Day. 

There  was  a  flood  that  morning.  All  the  pre 
ceding  day  the  rains  had  drenched  the  high 
slopes  unceasingly.  That  night,  the  rain-clear 
forks  of  the  Kentucky  got  yellow  and  rose  high, 

' 


THE   PAKDON   OF   BECKY   DAY 

\ 

and  now  they  crashed  together  around  the  town 
and,  after  a  heaving  conflict,  started  the  river  on 
one  quivering,  majestic  sweep  to  the  sea. 

Nobody  gave  heed  that  the  girl  rode  a  mule 
or  that  the  saddle  was  not  her  own,  and  both 
facts  she  herself  quickly  forgot.  This  half  log, 
half  frame  house  on  a  corner  had  stood  a  siege 
once.  She  could  yet  see  bullet  holes  about  the 
door.  Through  this  window,  a  revenue  officer 
from  the  Blue  Grass  had  got  a  bullet  in  the 
shoulder  from  a  garden  in  the  rear.  Standing 
in  the  post-office  door  only  just  one  month  be 
fore,  she  herself  had  seen  children  scurrying  like 
rabbits  through  the  back-yard  fences,  men  run 
ning  silently  here  and  there,  men  dodging  into 
doorways,  fire  flashing  in  the  street  and  from 
every  house — and  not  a  sound  but  the  crack  of 
pistol  and  Winchester;  for  the  mountain  men 
deal  death  in  all  the  terrible  silence  of  death. 
And  now  a  preacher  with  a  long  scar  across  his 
forehead  had  come  to  the  one  little  church  in  the 
place  and  the  fervor  of  religion  was  struggling 
with  feudal  hate  for  possession  of  the  town.  To 
the  girl,  who  saw  a  symbol  in  every  mood  of  the 
earth,  the  passions  of  these  primitive  people 
were  like  the  treacherous  streams  of  the  uplands 
— now  quiet  as  sunny  skies  and  now  clashing  to 
gether  with  but  little  less  fury  and  with  much 
more  noise.  And  the  roar  of  the  flood  above 
47 


THE   PAKDON   OF   BECKY   DAY 

the  wind  that  late  afternoon  was  the  wrath  of 
the  Father,  that  with  the  peace  of  the  Son  so 
long  on  earth,  such  things  still  could  be.  Once 
more  trouble  was  threatening  and  that  day  even 
she  knew  that  trouble  might  come,  but  she  rode 
without  fear,  for  she  went  when  and  where  she 
pleased  as  any  woman  can,  throughout  the  Cum 
berland,  without  insult  or  harm. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  were  two  houses  that 
seemed  to  front  each  other  with  unmistakable 
enmity.  In  them  were  two  men  who  had 
wounded  each  other  only  the  day  before,  and 
who  that  day  wou!4  lead  the  factions,  if  the  old 
feud  broke  loose  again.  One  house  was  close 
to  the  frothing  hem  of  the  flood — a  log-hut  with 
a  shed  of  rough  boards  for  a  kitchen — the  home 
of  Becky  Day. 

The  other  was  across  the  way  and  was  framed 
and  smartly  painted.  On  the  steps  sat  a  woman 
with  her  head  bare  and  her  hands  under  her 
apron — widow  of  the  Marcum  whose  death 
from  a  bullet  one  month  before  had  broken  the 
long  truce  of  the  feud.  A  groaning  curse  was 
growled  from  the  v.  indow  as  the  girl  drew  near, 
and  she  knew  it  came  from  a  wounded  Marcum 
who  had  lately  come  back  from  the  West  to 
avenge  his  brother's  death. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  over  to  see  your  neigh 
bor?  "  The  girl's  clear  eyes  gave  no  hint  that 

48 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

she  knew — as  she  well  did — the  trouble  between 
the  houses,  and  the  widow  stared  in  sheer  amaze 
ment,  for  mountaineers  do  not  talk  with  strang 
ers  of  the  quarrels  between  them. 

"  I  have  nothin'  to  do  with  such  as  her,"  she 
said,  sullenly;  "  she  ain't  the  kind " 

"  Don't!  "  said  the  girl,  with  a  flush,  "  she's 
dying." 

"Dybit" 

11  Yes."  With  the  word  the  girl  sprang  from 
the  mule  and  threw  the  reins  over  the  pale  of  the 
fence  in  front  of  the  log-hut  across  the  way.  In 
the  doorway  she  turned  as  though  she  would 
speak  to  the  woman  on  the  steps  again,  but  a  tall 
man  with  a  black  beard  appeared  in  the  low  door 
of  the  kitchen-shed. 

"  How  is  your — how  is  Mrs.  Day?  " 

"  Mighty  puny  this  mornin' — Becky  is." 

The  girl  slipped  into  the  dark  room.  On  a 
disordered,  pillowless  bed  lay  a  white  face  with 
eyes  closed  and  mouth  slightly  open.  Near  the 
bed  was  a  low  wood  fire.  On  the  hearth  were 
several  thick  cups  filled  with  herbs  and  heavy 
fluids  and  covered  with  tarpaulin,  for  Becky's 
"  man  "  was  a  teamster.  With  a  few  touches  of 
the  girl's  quick  hands,  the  covers  of  the  bed  were 
smooth,  and  the  woman's  eyes  rested  on  the 
girl's  own  cloak.  With  her  own  handkerchief 
she  brushed  the  death-damp  from  the  forehead 

49 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

that  already  seemed  growing  cold.  At  her  first 
touch,  the  woman's  eyelids  opened  and  dropped 
together  again.  Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them. 

In  a  moment  the  ashes  disappeared,  the  hearth 
was  clean  and  the  fire  was  blazing.  Every 
time  the  girl  passed  the  window  she  saw  thtf 
widow  across  the  way  staring  hard  at  the  hut. 
When  she  took  the  ashes  into  the  street,  the 
woman  spoke  to  her. 

"  I  can't  go  to  see  Becky — she  hates  me." 
'  With  good  reason." 

The  answer  came  with  a  clear  sharpness  that 
made  the  widow  start  and  redden  angrily;  but 
the  girl  walked  straight  to  the  gate,  her  eyes 
ablaze  with  all  the  courage  that  the  mountain 
woman  knew  and  yet  with  another  courage  to 
which  the  primitive  creature  was  a  stranger — a 
courage  that  made  the  widow  lower  her  own 
eyes  and  twist  her  hands  under  her  apron. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  and  ask  Becky  to  for 
give  you." 

The  woman  stared  and  laughed. 

"  Forgive  me?  Becky  forgive  me?  She 
wouldn't — an'  I  don't  want  her — "  She  could 
not  look  up  into  the  girl's  eyes ;  but  she  pulled  a 
pipe  from  under  the  apron,  laid  it  down  with  a 
trembling  hand  and  began  to  rock  slightly. 

The  girl  leaned  across  the  gate. 
50 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

"  Look  at  me !  "  she  said,  sharply.  The 
woman  raised  her  eyes,  swerved  them  once,  and 
then  in  spite  of  herself,  held  them  steady. 

"  Listen!  Do  you  want  a  dying  woman's 
curse?  " 

It  was  a  straight  thrust  to  the  core  of  a  super 
stitious  heart  and  a  spasm  of  terror  crossed  the 
woman's  face.  She  began  to  wring  her  hands. 

"Come  on!"  said  the  girl,  sternly,  and 
turned,  without  looking  back,  until  she  reached 
the  door  of  the  hut,  where  she  beckoned  and 
stood  waiting,  while  the  woman  started  slowly 
and  helplessly  from  the  steps,  still  wringing  her 
hands.  Inside,  behind  her,  the  wounded  Mar- 
cum,  who  had  been  listening,  raised  himself  on 
one  elbow  and  looked  after  her  through  the  win 
dow. 

"  She  can't  come  in — not  while  I'm  in  here." 

The  girl  turned  quickly.  It  was  Dave  Day, 
the  teamster,  in  the  kitchen  door,  and  his  face 
looked  blacker  than  his  beard. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  simply,  as  though  hurt,  and 
then  with  a  dignity  that  surprised  her,  the  team 
ster  turned  and  strode  towards  the  back  door. 

"  But  I  can  git  out,  I  reckon,"  he  said,  and  he 
never  looked  at  the  widow  who  had  stopped, 
frightened,  at  the  gate. 

"  Oh,  I  can't — I  can't  I "  she  said,  and  her 
voice  broke;  but  the  girl  gently  pushed  her  to 


THE    PAKDON    OF   BECKY    DAY 

the  door,  where  she  stopped  again,  leaning 
against  the  lintel.  Across  the  way,  the  wounded 
Marcum,  with  a  scowl  of  wonder,  crawled  out 
of  his  bed  and  started  painfully  to  the  door. 
The  girl  saw  him  and  her  heart  beat  fast. 

Inside,  Becky  lay  with  closed  eyes.  She  stirred 
uneasily,  as  though  she  felt  some  hated  presence, 
but  her  eyes  stayed  fast,  for  the  presence  of 
Death  in  the  room  was  stronger  still. 

"Becky!  "  At  the  broken  cry,  Becky's  eyes 
flashed  wide  and  fire  broke  through  the  haze 
that  had  gathered  in  them. 

"  I  want  ye  ter  fergive  me,  Becky." 

The  eyes  burned  steadily  for  a  long  time. 
For  two  days  she  had  not  spoken,  but  her  voice 
came  now,  as  though  from  the  grave. 

"  You !  "  she  said,  and,  again,  with  torturing 
scorn,  "  You !  "  And  then  she  smiled,  for  she 
knew  why  her  enemy  was  there,  and  her  hour  of 
triumph  was  come.  The  girl  moved  swiftly  to 
the  window — she  could  see  the  wounded  Mar 
cum  slowly  crossing  the  street,  pistol  in  hand. 

"What'dl  ever  do  to  you?" 

"  Nothin',  Becky,  nothin'." 

Becky  laughed  harshly.  "  You  can  tell  the 
truth — can't  ye — to  a  dyin'  woman?  " 

"  Fergive  me,  Becky!  " 

A  scowling  face,  tortured  with  pain,  was 
thrust  into  the  window. 

52 


THE    PARDON   OF   BECKY   DAY 

"  Sh-h!  "  whispered  the  girl,  imperiously,  and 
the  man  lifted  his  heavy  eyes,  dropped  one  elbow 
on  the  window-sill  and  waited. 

"  You  tuk  Jim  from  me !  " 

The  widow  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  the  Marcum  at  the  window — brother  to 
Jim,  who  was  dead — lowered  at  her,  listening 
keenly,. 

"  An'  you  got  him  by  lyin'  'bout  me.  You 
tuk  him  by  lyin'  'bout  me — didn't  ye?  Didn't 
ye?  "  she  repeated,  fiercely,  and  her  voice  would 
have  wrung  the  truth  from  a  stone. 

"Yes— Becky— yes!" 

"  You  hear?  "  cried  Becky,  turning  her  eyes 
to  the  girl. 

"  You  made  him  believe  an'  made  ever'body, 
you  could,  believe  that  I  was — was  bad"  Her 
breath  got  short,  but  the  terrible  arraignment 
went  on. 

"  You  started  this  war.  My  brother  would 
n't  'a'  shot  Jim  Marcum  if  it  hadn't  been  fer 
you.  You  killed  Jim — your  own  husband — an' 
you  killed  me.  An'  now  you  want  me  to  fer- 
give  you — you !  "  She  raised  her  right  hand  as 
though  with  it  she  would  hurl  the  curse  behind 
her  lips,  and  the  widow,  with  a  cry,  sprang  for 
the  bony  fingers,  catching  them  in  her  own  hand 
and  falling  over  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 

u  Don't,  Becky,  don't— don't— don't!  " 

53 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

There  was  a  slight  rustle  at  the  back  window. 
At  the  other,  a  pistol  flashed  into  sight  and 
dropped  again  below  the  sill.  Turning,  the 
girl  saw  Dave's  bushy  black  head — he,  too,  with 
one  elbow  on  the  sill  and  the  other  hand  out  of 
sight. 

"  Shame!  "  she  said,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  two  men,  who  had  learned,  at  last, 
the  bottom  truth  of  the  feud;  and  then  she 
caught  the  sick  woman's  other  hand  and  spoke 
quickly. 

"  Hush,  Becky,"  she  said;  and  at  the  touch  of 
her  hand  and  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Becky 
looked  confusedly  at  her  and  let  her  upraised 
hand  sink  back  to  the  bed.  The  widow  stared 
swiftly  from  Jim's  brother,  at  one  window,  to 
Dave  Day  at  the  other,  and  hid  her  face  on  her 
arms. 

"  Remember,  Becky — how  can  you  expect  for 
giveness  in  another  world,  unless  you  forgive  in 
this?" 

The  woman's  brow  knitted  and  she  lay  quiet. 
Like  the  widow  who  held  her  hand,  the  dying 
woman  believed,  with  never  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt,  that  somewhere  above  the  stars,  a  living 
God  reigned  in  a  heaven  of  never-ending  happi 
ness;  that  somewhere  beneath  the  earth  a  per 
sonal  devil  gloated  over  souls  in  eternal  torture ; 
that  whether  she  went  above,  or  below,  hung 
54 


THE    PAKDON    OF   BECKY   BAY 

solely  on  her  last  hour  of  contrition ;  and  that  in 
heaven  or  hell  she  would  know  those  whom  she 
might  meet  as  surely  as  she  had  known  them  on 
earth.  By  and  by  her  face  softened  and  she 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Jim  was  a  good  man,"  she  said.  And  then 
after  a  moment: 

"  An'  I  was  a  good  woman  " — she  turned  her 
eyes  towards  the  girl — "  until  Jim  married  her. 
I  didn't  keer  after  that."  Then  she  got  calm, 
and  while  she  spoke  to  the  widow,  she  looked  at 
the  girl. 

"  Will  you  git  up  in  church  an'  say  before 
ever'body  that  you  knew  I  was  good  when  you 
said  I  was  bad — that  you  lied  about  me?  " 

"  Yes — yes."  Still  Becky  looked  at  the  girl, 
who  stooped  again. 

"  She  will,  Becky,  I  know  she  will.  Won't 
you  forgive  her  and  leave  peace  behind  you? 
Dave  and  Jim's  brother  are  here — make  them 
shake  hands.  Won't  you — won't  you?"  she 
asked,  turning  from  one  to  the  other. 

Both  men  were  silent. 

"  Won't  you?  "  she  repeated,  looking  at  Jim's 
brother. 

"  I've  got  nothin'  agin  Dave.  I  always 
thought  that  she  " — he  did  not  call  his  brother's 
wife  by  name — caused  all  this  trouble.  I've 
nothin'  agin  Dave." 

55 


THE    PAEDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

The  girl  turned.     "  Won't  you,  Dave?  " 

"  I'm  waitin'  to  hear  whut  Becky  says." 

Becky  was  listening,  though  her  eyes  were 
closed.  Her  brows  knitted  painfully.  It  was 
a  hard  compromise  that  she  was  asked  to  make 
between  mortal  hate  and  a  love  that  was  more 
than  mortal,  but  the  Plea  that  has  stood  between 
them  for  nearly  twenty  centuries  prevailed,  and 
the  girl  knew  that  the  end  of  the  feud  was  nigh. 

Becky  nodded. 

"  Yes,  I  fergive  her,  an'  I  want  'em  to  shake 
hands." 

But  not  once  did  she  turn  her  eyes  to  the 
woman  whom  she  forgave,  and  the  hand  that  the 
widow  held  gave  back  no  answering  pressure. 
The  faces  at  the  windows  disappeared,  and  she 
motioned  for  the  girl  to  take  her  weeping  enemy 
away. 

She  did  not  open  her  eyes  when  the  girl  came 
back,  but  her  lips  moved  ar^d  the  girl  bent  above 
her. 

"  I  know  whar  Jim  is." 

From  somewhere  outside  came  Dave's  cough, 
and  the  dying  woman  turned  her  head  as 
though  she  were  reminded  of  something  she 
had  quite  forgotten.  Then,  straightway,  she 
forgot  again. 

The  voice  of  the  flood  had  deepened.  A 
smile  came  to  Becky's  lips — a  faint,  terrible 

56 


THE    PAEDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

smile  of  triumph.  The  girl  bent  low  and,  witK 
a  startled  face,  shrank  back. 

«  An9  I'll— git— tkar— first." 

With  that  whisper  went  Becky's  last  breath, 
but  the  smile  was  there,  even  when  her  lips  were 
cold. 


57 


A   CRISIS   FOR   THE   GUARD 

THE  tutor  was  from  New  England,  and  he 
was  precisely  what  passes,  with  South 
erners,  as  typical.  He  was  thin,  he  wore  spec 
tacles,  he  talked  dreamy  abstractions,  and  he 
looked  clerical.  Indeed,  his  ancestors  had  been 
clergymen  for  generations,  and,  by  nature  and 
principle,  he  was  an  apostle  of  peace  and  a  non- 
combatant.  He  had  just  come  to  the  Gap — a 
cleft  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains — to  prepare 
two  young  Blue  Grass  Kentuckians  for  Harvard. 
The  railroad  was  still  thirty  miles  away,  and  he 
had  travelled  mule-back  through  mudholes,  on 
which,  as  the  joke  ran,  a  traveller  was  supposed 
to  leave  his  card  before  he  entered  and  disap 
peared — that  his  successor  might  not  unknow 
ingly  press  him  too  hard.  I  do  know  that,  in 
those  mudholes,  mules  were  sometimes  drowned. 
The  tutor's  gray  mule  fell  over  a  bank  with  him, 
arid  he  would  have  gone  back  had  he  not  feared 
what  was  behind  more  than  anything  that  was 
possible  ahead.  He  was  mud-bespattered,  sore, 
tired  and  dispirited  when  he  reached  the  Gap, 
but  still  plucky  and  full  of  business.  He  wanted 

58 


A    CRISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD  * 

to  see  his  pupils  at  once  and  arrange  his  schedule. 
They  came  in  after  supper,  and  I  had  to  laugh 
when  I  saw  his  mild  eyes  open.  The  boys  were 
only  fifteen  and  seventeen,  but  each  had  around 
him  a  huge  revolver  and  a  belt  of  cartridges, 
which  he  unbuckled  and  laid  on  the  table  after 
shaking  hands.  The  tutor's  shining  glasses  were 
raised  to  me  for  light.  I  gave  it :  my  brothers 
had  just  come  in  from  a  little  police  duty,  I  ex 
plained.  Everybody  was  a  policeman  at  the 
Gap,  I  added ;  and,  naturally,  he  still  looked  puz 
zled;  but  he  began  at  once  to  question  the  boys 
about  their  studies,  and,  in  an  hour,  he  had  his 
daily  schedule  mapped  out  and  submitted  to  me. 
I  had  to  cover  my  mouth  with  my  hand  when  I 
came  to  one  item — "  Exercise :  a  walk  of  half 
an  hour  every  Wednesday  afternoon  between 
five  and  six  " — for  the  younger,  known  since  at 
Harvard  as  the  colonel,  and  known  then  at  the 
Gap  as  the  Infant  of  the  Guard,  winked  most  ir 
reverently.  As  he  had  just  come  back  from  a 
ten-mile  chase  down  the  valley  on  horseback 
after  a  bad  butcher,  and  as  either  was  apt  to 
have  a  like  experience  any  and  every  day,  I 
was  not  afraid  they  would  fail  to  get  exercise 
enough;  so  I  let  that  item  of  the  tutor  pass. 

The  tutor  slept  in  my  room  that  night,  and 
my  four  brothers,  the  eldest  of  whom  was  a  lieu 
tenant  on  the  police  guard,  in  a  room  across  the 
59 


A   CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

hallway.  I  explained  to  the  tutor  that  there  was 
much  lawlessness  in  the  region;  that  we  "  for 
eigners  "  were  trying  to  build  a  town,  and  that, 
to  ensure  law  and  order,  we  had  all  become  vol 
unteer  policemen.  He  seemed  to  think  it  was 
most  interesting. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  shrill 
whistle  blew,  and,  from  habit,  I  sprang  out  of 
bed.  I  had  hardly  struck  the  floor  when  four 
pairs  of  heavy  boots  thundered  down  the  stairs 
just  outside  the  door,  and  I  heard  a  gasp  from 
the  startled  tutor.  He  was  bolt  upright  in  bed, 
and  his  face  in  the  moonlight  was  white  with 
fear. 

«  Wha—wha— what's  that?  " 

I  told  him  it  was  a  police  whistle  and  that  the 
boys  were  answering  it.  Everybody  jumped 
when  he  heard  a  whistle,  I  explained ;  for  nobody 
in  town  was  permitted  to  blow  one  except  a  po 
liceman.  I  guessed  there  would  be  enough  men 
answering  that  whistle  without  me,  however,  and 
I  slipped  back  into  bed. 

"Well,"  he  said;  and  when  the  boys  lum 
bered  upstairs  again  and  one  shouted  through 
the  door,  "  All  right!  "  the  tutor  said  again  with 
emphasis:"  Well!" 

Next  day  there  was  to  be  a  political  gathering 
at  the  Gap.  A  Senator  was  trying  to  lift  him 
self  by  his  own  boot-straps  into  the  Governor's 
60 


A    CEISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

chair.  He  was  going  to  make  a  speech,  there 
would  be  a  big  and  unruly  crowd,  and  it  would 
be  a  crucial  day  for  the  Guard.  So,  next  morn 
ing,  I  suggested  to  the  tutor  that  it  would  be  un 
wise  for  him  to  begin  work  with  his  pupils  that 
day,  for  the  reason  that  he  was  likely  to  be 
greatly  interrupted  and  often.  He  thought, 
however,  he  would  like  to  begin.  He  did  begin, 
and  within  half  an  hour  Gordon,  the  town  ser 
geant,  thrust  his  head  inside  the  door  and  called 
the  colonel  by  name. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said;  "  they're  going  to  try 
that  d — n  butcher."  And  seeing  from  the  tu 
tor's  face  that  he  had  done  something  dreadful, 
he  slammed  the  door  in  apologetic  confusion. 
The  tutor  was  law-abiding,  and  it  was  the  law 
that  called  the  colonel,  and  so  the  tutor  let  him 
go — nay,  went  with  him  and  heard  the  case. 
The  butcher  had  gone  off  on  another  man's  horse 
— the  man  owed  him  money,  he  said,  and  the 
only  way  he  could  get  his  money  was  to  take  the 
horse  as  security.  But  the  sergeant  did  not  know 
this,  and  he  and  the  colonel  rode  after  him,  and 
the  colonel,  having  the  swifter  horse,  but  not 
having  had  time  to  get  his  own  pistol,  took  the 
sergeant's  and  went  ahead.  He  fired  quite  close 
to  the  running  butcher  twice,  and  the  butcher 
thought  it  wise  to  halt.  When  he  saw  the  child 
who  had  captured  him  he  was  speechless,  and  he 
61 


A    CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

got  off  his  horse  and  cut  a  big  switch  to  give  the 
colonel  a  whipping,  but  the  doughty  Infant  drew 
down  on  him  again  and  made  him  ride,  foaming 
with  rage,  back  to  town.  The  butcher  was  good- 
natured  at  the  trial,  however,  and  the  tutor  heard 
him  say,  with  a  great  guffaw: 

"  An'  I  do  believe  the  d — n  little  fool  would 
'a'  shot  me." 

Once  more  the  tutor  looked  at  the  pupil  whom 
he  was  to  lead  into  the  classic  halls  of  Harvard, 
and  once  more  he  said : 

"Well!" 

People  were  streaming  into  town  now,  and  I 
persuaded  the  tutor  that  there  was  no  use  for 
him  to  begin  his  studies  again.  He  said  he  would 
go  fishing  down  the  river  and  take  a  swim.  He 
would  get  back  in  time  to  hear  the  speaking  in 
the  afternoon.  So  I  got  him  a  horse,  and  he 
came  out  with  a  long  cane  fishing-pole  and  a  pair 
of  saddle-bags.  I  told  him  that  he  must  watch 
the  old  nag  or  she  would  run  away  with  him, 
particularly  when  he  started  homeward.  The 
tutor  was  not  much  of  a  centaur.  The  horse 
started  as  he  was  throwing  the  wrong  leg  over 
his  saddle,  and  the  tutor  clamped  his  rod  under 
one  arm,  clutching  for  the  reins  with  both  hands 
and  kicking  for  his  stirrups  with  both  feet.  The 
tip  of  the  limber  pole  beat  the  horse's  flank  gen 
tly  as  she  struck  a  trot,  and  smartly  as  she  struck 

62 


A    CEISIS   FOE  THE    GUAKD 

into  a  lope,  and  so  with  arms,  feet,  saddle-pock 
ets,  and  fishing-rod  flapping  towards  different 
points  of  the  compass,  the  tutor  passed  out  of 
sight  over  Poplar  Hill  on  a  dead  run. 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  over  a  fit  of  laughter 
and  catch  his  breath,  the  colonel  asked : 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  had  in  those  saddle- 
pockets?  " 

"No." 

"  A  bathing  suit,"  he  shouted;  and  he  went  off 
again. 

Not  even  in  a  primeval  forest,  it  seemed, 
would  the  modest  Puritan  bare  his  body  to  the 
mirror  of  limpid  water  and  the  caress  of  moun 
tain  air. 


The  trouble  had  begun  early  that  morning, 
when  Gordon,  the  town  sergeant,  stepped  from 
his  door  and  started  down  the  street  with  no  lit 
tle  self-satisfaction.  He  had  been  arraying  him 
self  for  a  full  hour,  and  after  a  tub-bath  and  a 
shave  he  stepped,  spick  and  span,  into  the  street 
with  his  head  steadily  held  high,  except  when  he 
bent  it  to  look  at  the  shine  of  his  boots,  which 
was  the  work  of  his  own  hands,  and  of  which 
he  was  proud.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  ser 
geant  felt  that  he  looked  just  as  he  particularly 
wanted  to  look  on  that  day — his  best.  Gordon 

63 


A    CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

was  a  native  of  Wise,  but  that  day  a  girl  was 
coming  from  Lee,  and  he  was  ready  for  her. 

Opposite  the  Intermont,  a  pistol-shot  cracked 
from  Cherokee  Avenue,  and  from  habit  he 
started  that  way.  Logan,  the  captain  of  the 
Guard — the  leading  lawyer  in  that  part  of  the 
State — was  ahead  of  him  however,  and  he  called 
to  Gordon  to  follow.  Gordon  ran  in  the  grass 
along  the  road  to  keep  those  boots  out  of  the 
dust.  Somebody  had  fired  off  his  pistol  for  fun 
and  was  making  tracks  for  the  river.  As  they 
pushed  the  miscreant  close,  he  dashed  into  the 
river  to  wade  across.  It  was  a  very  cold  morn 
ing,  and  Gordon  prayed  that  the  captain  was  not 
going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  follow  the  fellow 
across  the  river.  He  should  have  known  better. 

"  In  with  you,"  said  the  captain  quietly,  and 
the  mirror  of  the  shining  boots  was  dimmed, 
and  the  icy  water  chilled  the  sergeant  to  the 
knees  and  made  him  so  mad  that  he  flashed  his 
pistol  and  told  the  runaway  to  halt,  which  he  did 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream.  It  was  Richards, 
the  tough  from  "  the  Pocket,"  and,  as  he  paid 
his  fine  promptly,  they  had  to  let  him  go.  Gor 
don  went  back,  put  on  his  everyday  clothes  and 
got  his  billy  and  his  whistle  and  prepared  to  see 
the  maid  from  Lee  when  his  duty  should  let  him. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  saw  her  but  once,  and 
then  he  was  not  made  happy. 


A   CRISIS   FOE   THE    GTJAKD 

The  people  had  come  in  rapidly — giants  from 
the  Crab  Orchard,  mountaineers  from  through 
the  Gap,  and  from  Cracker's  Neck  and  Thun 
derstruck  Knob ;  Valley  people  from  Little  Stone 
Gap,  from  the  furnace  site  and  Bum  Hollow  and 
Wildcat,  and  people  from  Lee,  from  Turkey 
Cove,  and  from  the  Pocket — the  much-dreaded 
Pocket — far  down  in  the  river  hills. 

They  came  on  foot  and  on  horseback,  and  left 
their  horses  in  the  bushes  and  crowded  the  streets 
and  filled  the  saloon  of  one  Jack  Woods — who 
had  the  cackling  laugh  of  Satan  and  did  not  like 
the  Guard,  for  good  reasons,  and  whose  partic 
ular  pleasure  was  to  persuade  some  customer  to 
stir  up  a  hornet's  nest  of  trouble.  From  the 
saloon  the  crowd  moved  up  towards  the  big 
spring  at  the  foot  of  Imboden  Hill,  where,  under 
beautiful  trunk-mottled  beeches,  was  built  the 
speakers'  platform. 

Precisely  at  three  o'clock  the  local  orator, 
much  flurried,  rose,  ran  his  hand  through  his 
long  hair  and  looked  in  silence  over  the*  crowd. 

"  Fellow  citizens !  There's  beauty  in  the  stars 
of  night  and  in  the  glowin'  orb  of  day.  There's 
beauty  in  the  rollin'  meadow  and  in  the  quiet 
stream.  There's  beauty  in  the  smilin'  valley 
and  in  the  everlastin'  hills.  Therefore,  fellow 
citizens — THEREFORE,  fellow  citizens,  allow  me 
to  introduce  to  you  the  future  Governor  of  these 
65 


A    CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

United  States  —  Senator  William  Bayhone." 
And  he  sat  down  with  such  a  beatific  smile  of 
self-satisfaction  that  a  fiend  would  not  have  had 
the  heart  to  say  he  had  not  won. 

Now,  there  are  wandering  minstrels  yet  in  the 
Cumberland  Hills.  They  play  fiddles  and  go 
about  making  up  "  ballets  "  that  involve  local 
history.  Sometimes  they  make  a  pretty  good 
verse — this,  for  instance,  about  a  feud : 

The  death  of  these  two  men 

Caused  great  trouble  in  our  land. 
Caused  men  to  leave  their  families 

And  take  the  parting  hand. 
Retaliation,  still  at  war, 

May  never,  never  cease. 
I  would  that  I  could  only  see 

Our  land  once  more  at  peace. 

There  was  a  minstrel  out  in  the  crowd,  and 
pretty  soon  he  struck  up  his  fiddle  and  his  lay, 
and  he  did  not  exactly  sing  the  virtues  of  Billy 
Bayhone.  Evidently  some  partisan  thought  he 
ought,  for  he  smote  him  on  the  thigh  with  the 
toe  of  his  boot  and  raised  such  a  stir  as  a  rude 
stranger  might  had  he  smitten  a  troubadour  in 
Arthur's  Court.  The  crowd  thickened  and 
surged,  and  four  of  the  Guard  emerged  with  the 
fiddler  and  his  assailant  under  arrest.  It  was  as 
though  the  Valley  were  a  sheet  of  water  straight- 

66 


A    CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

way  and  the  fiddler  the  dropping  of  a  stone,  for 
the  ripple  of  mischief  started  in  every  direction. 
It  caught  two  mountaineers  on  the  edge  of  the 
crowd,  who  for  no  particular  reason  thumped 
each  other  with  their  huge  fists,  and  were  swiftly 
led  away  by  that  silent  Guard.  The  operation 
of  a  mysterious  force  was  in  the  air  and  it  puz 
zled  the  crowd.  Somewhere  a  whistle  would 
blow,  and,  from  this  point  and  that,  a  quiet,  well- 
dressed  young  man  would  start  swiftly  toward 
it.  The  crowd  got  restless  and  uneasy,  and,  by 
and  by,  experimental  and  defiant.  For  in  that 
crowd  was  the  spirit  of  Bunker  Hill  and  King's 
Mountain.  It  couldn't  fiddle  and  sing;  it  could 
n't  settle  its  little  troubles  after  the  good  old 
fashion  of  fist  and  skull;  it  couldn't  charge  up 
and  down  the  streets  on  horseback  if  it  pleased; 
it  couldn't  ride  over  those  pundiepn  sidewalks ;  it 
couldn't  drink  openly  and  without  shame;  and, 
Shades  of  the  American  Eagle  and  the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  it  couldn't  even  yell  No  wonder,  like 
the  heathen,  it  raged.  What  did  these  blanked 
"  furriners  "  have  against  them  anyhow?  They 
couldn't  run  their  country — not  much. 

Pretty  soon  there  came  a  shrill  whistle  far 
down-town  —  then  another  and  another.  It 
sounded  ominous,  indeed,  and  it  was,  being  a 
signal  of  distress  from  the  Infant  of  the  Guard, 
who  stood  before  the  door  of  Jack  Woods's 


A    CRISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD 

saloon  with  his  pistol  levelled  on  Richards,  the 
tough  from  the  Pocket,  the  Infant,  standing 
there  with  blazing  eyes,  alone  and  in  the  heart 
of  a  gathering  storm. 

Now  the  chain  of  lawlessness  that  had  tight 
ened  was  curious  and  significant.  There  was 
the  tough  and  his  kind — lawless,  irresponsible 
and  possible  in  any  community.  There  was  the 
farm-hand  who  had  come  to  town  with  the  wild 
son  of  his  employer — an  honest,  law-abiding  far 
mer.  Came,  too,  a  friend  of  the  farmer  who 
had  not  yet  reaped  the  crop  of  wild  oats  sown 
in  his  youth.  Whiskey  ran  all  into  one  mould. 
The  farm-hand  drank  with  the  tough,  the  wild 
son  with  the  farm-hand,  and  the  three  drank  to 
gether,  and  got  the  farmer's  unregenerate  friend 
to  drink  with  them ;  and  he  and  the  law-abiding 
farmer  himself,  by  and  by,  took  a  drink  for  old 
time's  sake.  Now  the  cardinal  command  of  ru 
ral  and  municipal  districts  all  through  the  South 
is,  "  Forsake  not  your  friend  " :  and  it  does  not 
take  whiskey  long  to  make  friends.  Jack  Woods 
had  given  the  tough  from  the  Pocket  a  whistle. 

"  You  dassen't  blow  it,"  said  he. 

Richards  asked  why,  and  Jack  told  him. 
Straightway  the  tough  blew  the  whistle,  and 
when  the  little  colonel  ran  down  to  arrest  him 
he  laughed  and  resisted,  and  the  wild  son  and 
the  farm-hand  and  Jack  Woods  showed  an 
68 


A   CEISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD 

inclination  to  take  his  part.  So,  holding  his 
"  drop  "  on  the  tough  with  one  hand,  the  Infant 
blew  vigorously  for  help  with  the  other. 

Logan,  the  captain,  arrived  first — he  usually 
arrived  first — and  Gordon,  the  sergeant,  was  by 
his  side — Gordon  was  always  by  his  side.  He 
would  have  stormed  a  battery  if  the  captain  had 
led  him,  and  the  captain  would  have  led  him — 
alone — if  he  thought  it  was  his  duty.  Logan 
was  as  calm  as  a  stage  hero  at  the  crisis  of  a 
play.  The  crowd  had  pressed  close. 

"  Take  that  man,"  he  said  sharply,  pointing 
to  the  tough  whom  the  colonel  held  covered,  and 
two  men  seized  him  from  behind. 

The  farm-hand  drew  his  gun. 

"  No,  you  don't !  "  he  shouted. 

"  Take  him"  said  the  captain  quietly;  and  he 
was  seized  by  two  more  and  disarmed. 

It  was  then  that  Sturgeon,  the  wild  son, 
ran  up. 

"  You  can't  take  that  man  to  jail,"  he  shouted 
with  an  oath,  pointing  at  the  farm-hand. 

The  captain  waved  his  hand.     "  And  him!  " 

As  two  of  the  Guard  approached,  Sturgeon 
started  for  his  gun.  Now,  Sturgeon  was  Gor 
don's  blood  cousin,  but  Gordon  levelled  his  own 
pistol.  Sturgeon's  weapon  caught  in  his  pocket, 
and  he  tried  to  pull  it  loose.  The  moment  he 
succeeded  Gordon  stood  ready  to  fire.  Twice 


A    CEISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

the  hammer  of  the  sergeant's  pistol  went  back 
almost  to  the  turning-point,  and  then,  as  he 
pulled  the  trigger  again,  Macf  arlan,  first  lieuten 
ant,  who  once  played  lacrosse  at  Yale,  rushed, 
parting  the  crowd  right  and  left,  and  dropped 
his  billy  lightly  three  times — right,  left  and  right 
— on  Sturgeon's  head.  The  blood  spurted,  the 
head  fell  back  between  the  bully's  shoulders,  his 
grasp  on  his  pistol  loosened,  and  he  sank  to  his 
knees.  For  a  moment  the  crowd  was  stunned  by 
the  lightning  quickness  of  it  all.  It  was  the  first 
blow  ever  struck  in  that  country  with  a  piece  of 
wood  in  the  name  of  the  law. 

'  Take  'em  on,  boys,"  called  the  captain, 
whose  face  had  paled  a  little,  though  he  seemed 
as  cool  as  ever. 

And  the  boys  started,  dragging  the  three 
struggling  prisoners,  and  the  crowd,  growing 
angrier  and  angrier,  pressed  close  behind,  a  hun 
dred  of  them,  led  by  the  farmer  himself,  a  giant 
in  size,  and  beside  himself  with  rage  and  hu 
miliation.  Once  he  broke  through  the  guard 
line  and  was  pushed  back.  Knives  and  pistols 
began  to  flash  now  everywhere,  and  loud  threats 
and  curses  rose  on  all  sides — the  men  should  not 
be  taken  to  jail.  The  sergeant,  dragging  Stur 
geon,  looked  up  into  the  blazing  eyes  of  a  girl 
on  the  sidewalk,  Sturgeon's  sister — the  maid 
from  Lee.  The  sergeant  groaned.  Logan  gave 
70 


A   CRISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD 

some  order  just  then  to  the  Infant,  who  ran 
ahead,  and  by  the  time  the  Guard  with  the  pris- 
onejs  had  backed  to  a  corner  there  were  two  lines 
of  Guards  drawn  across  the  street.  The  first 
line  let  the  prisoners  and  their  captors  through, 
closed  up  behind,  and  backed  slowly  towards  the 
corner,  where  it  meant  to  stand. 

It  was  very  exciting  there.  Winchesters  and 
shotguns  protruded  from  the  line  threateningly, 
but  the  mob  came  on  as  though  it  were  going  to 
press  through,  and  determined  faces  blenched 
with  excitement,  but  not  with  fear.  A  moment 
later,  the  little  colonel  and  the  Guards  on  either 
side  of  him  were  jabbing  at  men  with  cocked 
Winchesters.  At  that  moment  it  would  have 
needed  but  one  shot  to  ring  out  to  have  started 
an  awful  carnage ;  but  not  yet  was  there  a  man  \ 
in  the  mob — and  that  is  the  trouble  with  mobs —  ) 
who  seemed  willing  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  him 
self  that  the  others  might  gain  their  end.  For 
one  moment  they  halted,  cursing  and  waving 
their  pistols,  preparing  for  a  charge ;  and  in  that 
crucial  moment  the  tutor  from  New  England 
came  like  a  thunderbolt  to  the  rescue.  Shrieks 
of  terror  from  children,  shrieks  of  outraged 
modesty  from  women,  rent  the  air  down  the 
street  where  the  huddled  crowd .  was  rushing 
right  and  left  in  wild  confusion,  and,  through 
the  parting  crowd,  the  tutor  flew  into  sight  on 


A    CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

Horseback,  bareheaded,  barefooted,  clad  in  a 
gaudily  striped  bathing  suit,  with  his  saddle- 
pockets  flapping  behind  him  like  wings.  Some 
mischievous  mountaineers,  seeing  him  in  his 
bathing  suit  on  the  point  of  a  rock  up  the  river, 
had  joyously  taken  a  pot-shot  or  two  at  him,  and 
the  tutor  had  mounted  his  horse  and  fled.  But 
he  came  as  welcome  and  as  effective  as  an  emis 
sary  straight  from  the  God  of  Battles,  though 
he  came  against  his  will,  for  his  old  nag  was 
frantic  and  was  running  away.  Men,  women 
and  children  parted  before  him,  and  gaping 
mouths  widened  as  he  passed.  The  impulse  of 
the  crowd  ran  faster  than  his  horse,  and  even 
the  enraged  mountaineers  in  amazed  wonder 
sprang  out  of  his  way,  and,  far  in  the  rear,  a  few 
privileged  ones  saw  the  frantic  horse  plunge  to 
wards  his  stable,  stop  suddenly,  and  pitch  his 
mottled  rider  through  the  door  and  mercifully 
out  of  sight.  Human  purpose  must  give  way\ 
when  a  pure  miracle  comes  to  earth  to  baffle  it.  J 
It  gave  way  now  long  enough  to  let  the  oaken 
doors  of  the  calaboose  close  behind  tough,  farm 
hand,  and  the  farmer's  wild  son.  The  line  of 
Winchesters  at  the  corner  quietly  gave  way. 
The  power  of  the  Guard  was  established,  the 
backbone  of  the  opposition  broken;  henceforth, 
the  work  for  law  and  order  was  to  be  easy  com 
pared  with  what  it  had  been.  Up  at  the  big 
72 


A    CEISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD 

spring  under  the  beeches  sat  the  disgusted  ora 
tor  of  the  day  and  the  disgusted  Senator,  who, 
seriously,  was  quite  sure  that  the  Guard,  being 
composed  of  Democrats,  had  taken  this  way  to 
shatter  his  campaign. 

***** 

Next  morning,  in  court,  the  members  of  the 
Guard  acted  as  witnesses  against  the  culprits. 
Macfarlan  stated  that  he  had  struck  Sturgeon 
over  the  head  to  save  his  life,  and  Sturgeon, 
after  he  had  paid  his  fine,  said  he  would  prefer 
being  shot  to  being  clubbed  to  death,  and  he  bore 
dangerous  malice  for  a  long  time,  until  he 
learned  what  everybody  else  knew,  that  Macfar 
lan  always  did  what  he  thought  he  ought,  and 
never  spoke  anything  but  the  literal  truth, 
whether  it  hurt  friend,  foe  or  himself. 

After  court,  Richards,  the  tough,  met  Gordon, 
the  sergeant,  in  the  road.  "  Gordon,"  he  said, 
"  you  swore  to  a lie  about  me  a  while  ago." 

"  How  do  you  want  to  fight?  "  asked  Gordon. 

"Fair!"   ' 

"Come  on";  and  Gordon  started  for  the 
town  limits  across  the  river,  Richards  following 
on  horseback.  At  a  store,  Gordon  unbuckled 
his  belt  and  tossed  his  pistol  and  his  police  badge 
inside.  Jack  Woods,  seeing  this,  followed,  and 
the  Infant,  seeing  Woods,  followed  too.  The 
law  was  law,  but  this  affair  was  personal, 
73 


A    CRISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD 

and  would  be  settled  without  the  limits  of  law 
and  local  obligation.  Richards  tried  to  talk 
to  Gordon,  but  the  sergeant  walked  with  his 
head  down,  as  though  he  could  not  hear — he 
was  too  enraged  to  talk. 

While  Richards  was  hitching  his  horse  in  the 
bushes  the  sergeant  stood  on  the  bank  of  the 
river  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  chin  swinging 
from  side  to  side.  When  he  saw  Richards  in 
the  open  he  rushed  for  him  like  a  young  bull 
that  feels  the  first  swelling  of  his  horns.  It  was 
not  a  fair,  stand-up,  knock-down  English  fight, 
but  a  Scotch  tussle,  in  which  either  could  strike, 
kick,  bite  or  gouge.  After  a  few  blows  they 
clinched  and  whirled  and  fell,  Gordon  on  top — 
with  which  advantage  he  began  to  pound  the 
tough  from  the  Pocket  savagely.  Woods  made 
as  if  to  pull  him  off,  but  the  Infant  drew  his 
pistol.  "Keep  off!" 

"  He's  killing  him  I  "  shouted  Woods,  halting. 

"  Let  him  holler  '  Enough,'  then,"  said  the 
Infant. 

"  He's  killing  him !  "  shouted  Woods. 

"  Let  Gordon's  friends  take  him  off,  then," 
said  the  Infant.  "  Don't  you  touch  him." 

And  it  was  done.  Richards  was  senseless  and 
speechless — he  really  couldn't  shout  "  Enough." 
But  he  was  content,  and  the  day  left  a  very  sat 
isfactory  impression  on  him  and  on  his  friends. 
74 


A    CEISIS   FOR   THE    GUARD 

If  they  misbehaved  in  town  they  would  be  ar 
rested:  that  was  plain.  But  it  was  also  plain 
that  if  anybody  had  a  personal  grievance  against 
one  of  the  Guard  he  could  call  him  out  of  the 
town  limits  and  get  satisfaction,  after  the  way  of 
his  fathers.  There  was  nothing  personal  at  all 
in  the  attitude  of  the  Guard  towards  the  out 
siders;  which  recognition  was  a  great  stride  to 
ward  mutual  understanding  and  final  high  re 
gard. 

All  that  day  I  saw  that  something  was  troub 
ling  the  tutor  from  New  England.  It  was  the 
Moral  Sense  of  the  Puritan  at  work,  I  supposed, 
and,  that  night,  when  I  came  in  with  a  new  sup 
ply  of  "  billies  "  and  gave  one  to  each  of  my 
brothers,  the  tutor  looked  up  over  his  glasses  and 
cleared  his  throat. 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  we  shall  catch  it 
hot  on  the  savagery  of  the  South  and  the  bar 
barous  Method  of  keeping  it  down  " ;  but  before 
he  had  said  three  words  the  colonel  looked  as 
though  he  were  going  to  get  up  and  slap  the  lit 
tle  dignitary  on  the  back — which  would  have 
created  a  sensation  indeed. 

"  Have  you   an  extra   one   of  those — those 

1» 

"  Billies?  "  I  said,  wonderingly. 
"  Yes.     I — I  believe  I  shall  join  the  Guard 
myself,"  said  the  tutor  from  New  England. 

75 


CHRISTMAS   NIGHT  WITH  SATAN 

NO  night  was  this  in  Hades  with  solemn- 
eyed  Dante,  for  Satan  was  only  a  woolly 
little  black  dog,  and  surely  no  dog  was  ever  more 
absurdly  misnamed.     When  Uncle  Carey  first 
heard  that  name,  he  asked  gravely : 

"  Why,    Dinnie,    where    in    h ,"  Uncle 

Carey  gulped  slightly,  "  did  you  get  him?" 
And  Dinnie  laughed  merrily,  for  she  saw  the  fun 
of  the  question,  and  shook  her  black  curls. 
"  He  didn't  come  f'um  that  place!' 
Distinctly  Satan  had  not  come  from  that 
place.  On  the  contrary,  he  might  by  a  miracle 
have  dropped  straight  from  some  Happy  Hunt 
ing-ground,  for  all  the  signs  he  gave  of  having 
touched  pitch  in  this  or  another  sphere.  Noth 
ing  human  was  ever  born  that  was  gentler,  mer 
rier,  more  trusting  or  more  lovable  than  Satan. 
That  was  why  Uncle  Carey  said  again  gravely 
that  he  could  hardly  tell  Satan  and  his  little  mis 
tress  apart.  He  rarely  saw  them  apart,  and  as 
both  had  black  tangled  hair  and  bright  black 
eyes ;  as  one  awoke  every  morning  with  a  happy 
smile  and  the  other  with  a  jolly  bark;  as  they 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN" 

played  all  day  like  wind-shaken  shadows  and 
each  won  every  heart  at  first  sight — the  likeness 
was  really  rather  curious.  I  have  always  be 
lieved  that  Satan  made  the  spirit  of  Dinnie's 
house,  orthodox  and  severe  though  it  was,  al 
most  kindly  toward  his  great  namesake.  I  know 
I  have  never  been  able,  since  I  knew  little  Satan, 
to  think  old  Satan  as  bad  as  I  once  painted  him, 
though  I  am  sure  the  little  dog  had  many  pretty 
tricks  that  the  "  old  boy  "  doubtless  has  never 
used  in  order  to  amuse  his  friends. 

"  Shut  the  door,  Saty,  please."  Dinnie  would 
say,  precisely  as  she  would  say  it  to  Uncle  Billy, 
the  butler,  and  straightway  Satan  would  launch 
himself  at  it — bang !  He  never  would  learn  to 
close  it  softly,  for  Satan  liked  that — bang ! 

If  you  kept  tossing  a  coin  or  marble  in  the  air, 
Satan  would  keep  catching  it  and  putting  it  back 
in  your  hand  for  another  throw,  till  you  got 
tired.  Then  he  would  drop  it  on  a  piece  of  rag 
carpet,  snatch  the  carpet  with  his  teeth,  throw 
the  coin  across  the  room  and  rush  for  it  like  mad, 
until  he  got  tired.  If  you  put  a  penny  on  his 
nose,  he  would  wait  until  you  counted,  one — two 
— three!  Then  he  would  toss  it  up  himself  and 
catch  it.  Thus,  perhaps,  Satan  grew  to  love 
Mammon  right  well,  but  for  another  and  better 
reason  than  that  he  liked  simply  to  throw  it 
around — as  shall  now  be  made  plain. 
77 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

A  rubber  ball  with  a  hole  in  it  was  his  favor 
ite  plaything,  and  he  would  take  it  in  his  mouth 
and  rush  around  the  house  like  a  child,  squeezing 
it  to  make  it  whistle.  When  he  got  a  new  ball, 
he  would  hide  his  old  one  away  until  the  new 
one  was  the  worse  worn  of  the  two,  and  then  he 
would  bring  out  the  old  one  again.  If  Dinnie 
gave  him  a  nickel  or  a  dime,  when  they  went 
down-town,  Satan  would  rush  into  a  store,  rear 
up  on  the  counter  where  the  rubber  balls  were 
kept,  drop  the  coin,  and  get  a  ball  for  himself. 
Thus,  Satan  learned  finance.  He  began  to  hoard 
his  pennies,  and  one  day  Uncle  Carey  found  a 
pile  of  seventeen  under  a  corner  of  the  carpet. 
Usually  he  carried  to  Dinnie  all  coins  that  he 
found  in  the  street,  but  he  showed  one  day  that 
he  was  going  into  the  ball-business  for  himself. 
Uncle  Carey  had  given  Dinnie  a  nickel  for  some 
candy,  and,  as  usual,  Satan  trotted  down  the 
street  behind  her.  As  usual,  Satan  stopped  be 
fore  the  knick-knack  shop. 

"  Turn  on,  Saty,"  said  Dinnie.  Satan  reared 
against  the  door  as  he  always  did,  and  Dinnie 
said  again: 

"  Turn  on,  Saty."  As  usual,  Satan  dropped 
to  his  haunches,  but  what  was  unusual,  he  failed 
to  bark.  Now  Dinnie  had  got  a  new  ball  for 
Satan  only  that  morning,  so  Dinnie  stamped  her 
foot. 


Satan  would  drop  the  coin  and  get  a  ball  for  himself. 


0HRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

"  I  tell  you  to  turn  on,  Saty."  Satan  never 
moved.  He  looked  at  Dinnie  as  much  as  to 
say: 

"  I  have  never  disobeyed  you  before,  little 
mistress,  but  this  time  I  have  an  excellent  reason 
for  what  must  seem  to  you  very  bad  manners — " 
and  being  a  gentleman  withal,  Satan  rose  on  his 
haunches  and  begged. 

"  You're  des  a  pig,  Saty,"  said  Dinnie,  but 
with  a  sigh  for  the  candy  that  was  not  to  be, 
Dinnie  opened  the  door,  and  Satan,  to  her  won 
der,  rushed  to  the  counter,  put  his  forepaws  on 
it,  and  dropped  from  his  mouth  a  dime.  Satan 
had  found  that  coin  on  the  street.  He  didn't 
bark  for  change,  nor  beg  for  two  balls,  but  he 
had  got  it  in  his  woolly  little  head,  somehow, 
that  in  that  store  a  coin  meant  a  ball,  though 
never  before  nor  afterward  did  he  try  to  get  a 
ball  for  a  penny. 

Satan  slept  in  Uncle  Carey's  room,  for  of  all 
people,  after  Dinnie,  Satan  loved  Uncle  Carey 
best.  Every  day  at  noon  he  would  go  to  an  up 
stairs  window  and  watch  the  cars  come  around 
the  corner,  until  a  very  tall,  square-shouldered 
young  man  swung  to  the  ground,  and  down 
Satan  would  scamper — yelping — to  meet  him  at 
the  gate.  If  Uncle  Carey,  after  supper  and 
when  Dinnie  was  in  bed,  started  out  of  the  house, 
still  in  his  business  clothes,  Satan  would  leap  out 

79 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN" 

before  him,  knowing  that  he  too  might  be  al 
lowed  to  go ;  but  if  Uncle  Carey  had  put  on  black 
clothes  that  showed  a  big,  dazzling  shirt-front, 
and  picked  up  his  high  hat,  Satan  would  sit  per 
fectly  still  and  look  disconsolate;  for  as  there 
were  no  parties  or  theatres  for  Dinnie,  so  there 
were  none  for  him.  But  no  matter  how  late 
it  was  when  Uncle  Carey  came  home,  he  always 
saw  Satan's  little  black  nose  against  the  window- 
pane  and  heard  his  bark  of  welcome. 

After  intelligence,  Satan's  chief  trait  was  lov- 
ableness — nobody  ever  knew  him  to  fight,  to 
snap  at  anything,  or  to  get  angry;  after  lovable- 
ness,  it  was  politeness.  If  he  wanted  something 
to  eat,  if  he  wanted  Dinnie  to  go  to  bed,  if  he 
wanted  to  get  out  of  the  door,  he  would  beg — 
beg  prettily  on  his  haunches,  his  little  red  tongue 
out  and  his  funny  little  paws  hanging  loosely. 
Indeed,  it  was  just  because  Satan  was  so  little 
less  than  human,  I  suppose,  that  old  Satan  began 
to  be  afraid  he  might  have  a  soul.  So  the 
wicked  old  namesake  with  the  Hoofs  and  Horns 
laid  a  trap  for  little  Satan,  and,  as  he  is  apt  to 
do,  he  began  laying  it  early — long,  indeed,  be 
fore  Christmas. 

When  Dinnie  started  to  kindergarten  that  au 
tumn,  Satan  found  that  there  was  one  place 
where  he  could  never  go.  Like  the  lamb,  he 
could  not  go  to  school;  so  while  Dinnie  was 

80 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

away,  Satan  began  to  make  friends.  He  would 
bark,  "  Howdy-do?  "  to  every  dog  that  passed 
his  gate.  Many  stopped  to  rub  noses  with  him 
through  the  fence — even  Hugo  the  mastiff,  and 
nearly  all,  indeed,  except  one  strange-looking 
dog  that  appeared  every  morning  at  precisely 
nine  o'clock  and  took  his  stand  on  the  corner. 
There  he  would  lie  patiently  until  a  funeral  came 
along,  and  then  Satan  would  see  him  take  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  procession;  and  thus  he 
would  march  out  to  the  cemetery  and  back  again. 
Nobody  knew  where  he  came  from  nor  where  he 
went,  and  Uncle  Carey  called  him  the  "  funeral 
dog  "  and  said  he  was  doubtless  looking  for  his 
dead  master.  Satan  even  made  friends  with  a 
scrawny  little  yellow  dog  that  followed  an  old 
drunkard  around — a  dog  that,  when  his  mas 
ter  fell  in  the  gutter,  would  go  and  catch  a  po 
liceman  by  the  coat-tail,  lead  the  officer  to  his 
helpless  master,  and  spend  the  night  with  him 
in  jail. 

By  and  by  Satan  began  to  slip  out  of  the  house 
at  night,  and  Uncle  Billy  said  he  reckoned  Satan 
had  "  jined  de  club  ";  and  late  one  night,  when 
he  had  not  come  in,  Uncle   Billy  told  Uncle 
Carey  that  it  was  "  powerful  slippery  and  he 
reckoned  they'd  better  send  de  kerridge  after 
him  " — an  innocent  remark  that  made  Uncle     / 
Carey  send  a  boot  after  the  old  butler,  who  fled   / 
81 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

chuckling  down  the  stairs,  and  left  Uncle  Carey 
chuckling  in  his  room. 

Satan  had  "  jined  de  club  " — the  big  club — 
and  no  dog  was  too  lowly  in  Satan's  eyes  for 
admission;  for  no  priest  ever  preached  the 
brotherhood  of  man  better  than  Satan  lived  it — 
both  with  man  and  dog.  And  thus  he  lived  it 
that  Christmas  night — to  his  sorrow. 

Christmas  Eve  had  been  gloomy — the  gloom 
iest  of  Satan's  life.  Uncle  Carey  had  gone  to  a 
neighboring  town  at  noon.  Satan  had  followed 
him  down  to  the  station,  and  when  the  train 
started,  Uncle  Carey  had  ordered  him  to  go 
home.  Satan  took  his  time  about  going 
home,  not  knowing  it  was  Christmas  Eve.  He 
found  strange  things  happening  to  dogs  that 
day.  The  truth  was,  that  policemen  were 
shooting  all  dogs  found  that  were  without  a 
collar  and  a  license,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
bang  and  a  howl  somewhere  would  stop  Satan 
in  his  tracks.  At  a  little  yellow  house  on  the 
edge  of  town  he  saw  half  a  dozen  strange  dogs 
in  a  kennel,  and  every  now  and  then  a  negro 
would  lead  a  new  one  up  to  the  house  and  deliver 
him  to  a  big  man  at  the  door,  who,  in  return, 
would  drop  something  into  the  negro's  hand. 
While  Satan  waited,  the  old  drunkard  came 
along  with  his  little  dog  at  his  heels,  paused  be 
fore  the  door,  looked  a  moment  at  his  faithful 
82 


CHE1STMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

follower,  and  went  slowly  on.  Satan  little  knew 
the  old  drunkard's  temptation,  for  in  that  yellow 
house  kind-hearted  people  had  offered  fifteen 
cents  for  each  dog  brought  to  them,  without  a 
license,  that  they  might  mercifully  put  it  to 
death,  and  fifteen  cents  was  the  precise  price  for 
a  drink  of  good  whiskey.  Just  then  there  was 
another  bang  and  another  howl  somewhere,  and 
Satan  trotted  home  to  meet  a  calamity.  Dinnie 
was  gone.  Her  mother  had  taken  her  out  in 
the  country  to  Grandmother  Dean's  to  spend 
Christmas,  as  was  the  family  custom,  and  Mrs. 
Dean  would  not  wait  any  longer  for  Satan;  so 
she  told  Uncle  Billy  to  bring  him  out  after  sup 
per. 

"  Ain't  you  'shamed  o'  yo'self — suh — ?  "  said 
the  old  butler,  "  keepin'  me  from  ketchin'  Christ 
mas  gifts  dis  day?  " 

Uncle  Billy  was  indignant,  for  the  negroes  be 
gin  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  / 
Eve  to  slip  around  corners  and  jump  from  hid 
ing  places  to  shout  "  Christmas  Gif ' — Christmas 
Gif  ";  and  the  one  who  shouts  first  gets  a  gift. 
No  wonder  it  was  gloomy  for  Satan — Uncle 
Carey,  Dinnie,  and  all  gone,  and  not  a  soul  but 
Uncle  Billy  in  the  big  house.  Every  few  min 
utes  he  would  trot  on  his  little  black  legs  up 
stairs  and  downstairs,  looking  for  his  mistress. 
As  dusk  came  on,  he  would  every  now  and  then 

83 


CHEISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

howl  plaintively.  After  begging  his  supper,  and 
while  Uncle  Billy  was  hitching  up  a  horse  in  the 
stable,  Satan  went  out  in  the  yard  and  lay  with 
his  nose  between  the  close  panels  of  the  fence — 
quite  heart-broken.  When  he  saw  his  old  friend, 
Hugo,  the  mastiff,  trotting  into  the  gaslight,  he 
began  to  bark,  his  delight  frantically.  The  big 
mastiff  stopped  and  nosed  his  sympathy  through 
the  fence  for  a  moment  and  walked  slowly  on, 
Satan  frisking  and  barking  along  inside.  At  the 
gate  Hugo  stopped,  and  raising  one  huge  paw, 
playfully  struck  it.  The  gate  flew  open,  and 
with  a  happy  yelp  Satan  leaped  into  the  street. 
The  noble  mastiff  hesitated  as  though  this  were 
not  quite  regular.  He  did  not  belong  to  the 
club,  and  he  didn't  know  that  Satan  had  ever 
been  away  from  home  after  dark  in  his  life.  For 
a  moment  he  seemed  to  wait  for  Dinnie  to  call 
him  back  as  she  always  did,  but  this  time  there 
was  no  sound,  and  Hugo  walked  majestically  on, 
with  absurd  little  Satan  running  in  a  circle  about 
him.  On  the  way  they  met  the  "  funeral  dog," 
who  glanced  inquiringly  at  Satan,  shied  from 
the  mastiff,  and  trotted  on.  On  the  next  block 
the  old  drunkard's  yellow  cur  ran  across  the 
street,  and  after  interchanging  the  compliments 
of  the  season,  ran  back  after  his  staggering  mas 
ter.  As  they  approached  the  railroad  track  a 
strange  dog  joined  them,  to  whom  Hugo  paid 

84 


CHEISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

no  attention.  At  the  crossing  another  new  ac 
quaintance  bounded  toward  them.  This  one — 
a  half-breed  shepherd — was  quite  friendly,  and 
he  received  Satan's  advances  with  affable  conde 
scension.  Then  another  came  and  another,  and 
little  Satan's  head  got  quite  confused.  They 
were  a  queer-looking  lot  of  curs  and  half-breeds 
from  the  negro  settlement  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  and  though  Satan  had  little  experience, 
his  instincts  told  him  that  all  was  not  as  it  should 
be,  and  had  he  been  human  he  would  have  won 
dered  very  much  how  they  had  escaped  the  car 
nage  that  day.  Uneasy,  he  looked  around  for 
Hugo;  but  Hugo  had  disappeared.  Once  or 
twice  Hugo  had  looked  around  for  Satan,  and 
Satan  paying  no  attention,  the  mastiff  trotted  on 
home  in  disgust.  Just  then  a  powerful  yellow 
cur  sprang  out  of  the  darkness  over  the  railroad 
track,  and  Satan  sprang  to  meet  him,  and  so 
nearly  had  the  life  scared  out  of  him  by  the  snarl 
and  flashing  fangs  of  the  new-comer  that  he 
hardly  had  the  strength  to  shrink  back  behind 
his  new  friend,  the  half-breed  shepherd. 

A  strange  thing  then  happened.  The  other 
dogs  became  suddenly  quiet,  and  every  eye  was 
on  the  yellow  cur.  He  sniffed  the  air  once  or 
twice,  gave  two  or  three  peculiar  low  growls,  and 
all  those  dogs  except  Satan  lost  the  civilization 
of  centuries  and  went  back  suddenly  to  the  time 

85 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

when  they  were  wolves  and  were  looking  for  a 
leader.  The  cur  was  Lobo  for  that  little  pack, 
and  after  a  short  parley,  he  lifted  his  nose  high 
and  started  away  without  looking  back,  while  the 
other  dogs  silently  trotted  after  him.  With  a 
mystified  yelp,  Satan  ran  after  them.  The  cur 
did  not  take  the  turnpike,  but  jumped  the  fence 
into  a  field,  making  his  way  by  the  rear  of  houses, 
from  which  now  and  then  another  dog  would 
slink  out  and  silently  join  the  band.  Every  one 
of  them  Satan  nosed  most  friendlily,  and  to  his 
great  joy  the  funeral  dog,  on  the  edge  of  the 
town,  leaped  into  their  midst.  Ten  minutes 
later  the  cur  stopped  in  the  midst  of  some  woods, 
as  though  he  would  inspect  his  followers.  Plain 
ly,  he  disapproved  of  Satan,  and  Satan  kept  out 
of  his  way.  Then  he  sprang  into  the  turnpike 
and  the  band  trotted  down  it,  under  flying  black 
clouds  and  shifting  bands  of  brilliant  moonlight. 
Once,  a  buggy  swept  past  them.  A  familiar 
odor  struck  Satan's  nose,  and  he  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  smell  the  horse's  tracks;  and  right 
he  was,  too,  for  out  at  her  grandmother's  Dinnie 
refused  to  be  comforted,  and  in  that  buggy  was 
Uncle  Billy  going  back  to  town  after  him. 

Snow  was  falling.  It  was  a  great  lark  for 
Satan.  Once  or  twice,  as  he  trotted  along,  he 
had  to  bark  his  joy  aloud,  and  each  time  the  big 
cur  gave  him  such  a  fierce  growl  that  he  feared 

86 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

thereafter  to  open  his  jaws.  But  he  was  happy 
for  all  that,  to  be  running  out  into  the  night  with 
such  a  lot  of  funny  friends  and  not  to  know  or 
care  where  he  was  going.  He  got  pretty  tired 
presently,  for  over  hill  and  down  hill  they  went, 
at  that  unceasing  trot,  trot,  trot !  Satan's  tongue 
began  to  hang  out.  Once  he  stopped  to  rest, 
but  the  loneliness  frightened  him  and  he  ran  on 
after  them  with  his  heart  almost  bursting.  He 
was  about  to  lie  right  down  and  die,  when  the 
cur  stopped,  sniffed  the  air  once  or  twice,  and 
with  those  same  low  growls,  led  the  marauders 
through  a  rail  fence  into  the  woods,  and  lay 
quietly  down.  How  Satan  loved  that  soft,  thick 
grass,  all  snowy  that  it  was !  It  was  almost  as 
good  as  his  own  bed  at  home.  And  there  they 
lay — how  long,  Satan  never  knew,  for  he  went 
to  sleep  and  dreamed  that  he  was  after  a  rat  in 
the  barn  at  home;  and  he  yelped  in  his  sleep, 
which  made  the  cur  lift  his  big  yellow  head  and 
show  his  fangs.  The  moving  of  the  half-breed 
shepherd  and  the  funeral  dog  waked  him  at  last, 
and  Satan  got  up.  Half  crouching,  the  cur  was 
leading  the  way  toward  the  dark,  still  woods  on 
top  of  the  hill,  over  which  the  Star  of  Bethle 
hem  was  lowly  sinking,  and  under  which  lay  a 
flock  of  the  gentle  creatures  that  seemed  to  have 
been  almost  sacred  to  the  Lord  of  that  Star. 
They  were  in  sore  need  of  a  watchful  shepherd 

8? 


CHKISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

now.  Satan  was  stiff  and  chilled,  but  he  was 
rested  and  had  had  his  sleep,  and  he  was  just  as 
ready  for  fun  as  he  always  was.  He  didn't  un 
derstand  that  sneaking.  Why  they  didn't  all 
jump  and  race  and  bark  as  he  wanted  to,  he 
couldn't  see;  but  he  was  too  polite  to  do  other 
wise  than  as  they  did,  and  so  he  sneaked  after 
them ;  and  one  would  have  thought  he  knew,  as 
well  as  the  rest,  the  hellish  mission  on  which  they 
were  bent. 

Out  of  the  woods  they  went,  across  a  little 
branch,  and  there  the  big  cur  lay  flat  again  in  the 
grass.  A  faint  bleat  came  from  the  hill-side  be 
yond,  where  Satan  could  see  another  woods — 
and  then  another  bleat,  and  another.  And  the 
cur  began  to  creep  again,  like  a  snake  in  the 
grass;  and  the  others  crept  too,  and  little  Satan 
crept,  though  it  was  all  a  sad  mystery  to  him. 
Again  the  cur  lay  still,  but  only  long  enough  for 
Satan  to  see  curious,  fat,  white  shapes  above  him 
— and  then,  with  a  blood-curdling  growl,  the  big 
brute  dashed  forward.  Oh,  there  was  fun  in 
them  after  all!  Satan  barked  joyfully.  Those 
were  some  new  playmates — those  fat,  white, 
hairy  things  up  there;  and  Satan  was  amazed 
when,  with  frightened  snorts,  they  fled  in  every 
direction.  But  this  was  a  new  game,  perhaps, 
of  which  he  knew  nothing,  and  as  did  the  rest,  so 
did  Satan.  He  picked  out  one  of  the  white 

88    ' 


CHKISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

things  and  fled  barking  after  it.  It  was  a  little 
fellow  that  he  was  after,  but  little  as  he  was,  Sa 
tan  might  never  have  caught  up,  had  not  the 
sheep  got  tangled  in  some  brush.  Satan  danced 
about  him  in  mad  glee,  giving  him  a  playful  nip 
at  his  wool  and  springing  back  to  give  him  an 
other  nip,  and  then  away  again.  Plainly,  he 
was  not  going  to  bite  back,  and  when  the  sheep 
struggled  itself  tired  and  sank  down  in  a  heap, 
Satan  came  close  and  licked  him,  and  as  he  was 
very  warm  and  woolly,  he  lay  down  and  snug 
gled  up  against  him  for  awhile,  listening  to  the 
turmoil  that  was  going  on  around  him.  And 
as  he  listened,  he  got  frightened. 

If  this  was  a  new  game  it  was  certainly  a  very 
peculiar  one — the  wild  rush,  the  bleats  of  ter 
ror,  gasps  of  agony,  and  the  fiendish  growls  of 
attack  and  the  sounds  of  ravenous  gluttony. 
With  every  hair  bristling,  Satan  rose  and  sprang 
from  the  woods — and  stopped  with  a  fierce  ting 
ling  of  the  nerves  that  brought  him  horror  and 
fascination.  One  of  the  white  shapes  lay  still 
before  him.  There  was  a  great  steaming  red 
splotch  on  the  snow,  and  a  strange  odor  in  the 
air  that  made  him  dizzy ;  but  only  for  a  moment. 
Another  white  shape  rushed  by.  A  tawny 
streak  followed,  and  then,  in  a  patch  of  moon 
light,  Satan  saw  the  yellow  cur  with  his  teeth 
fastened  in  the  throat  of  his  moaning  playmate. 

89 


CHEISTJVIAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

Like  lightning  Satan  sprang  at  the  cur,  who 
tossed  him  ten  feet  away  and  went  back  to  his 
awful  work.  Again  Satan  leaped,  but  just  then 
a  shout  rose  behind  him,  and  the  cur  leaped  too 
as  though  a  bolt  of  lightning  had  crashed  over 
him,  and,  no  longer  noticing  Satan  or  sheep, 
began  to  quiver  with  fright  and  slink  away. 
Another  shout  rose  from  another  direction — 
another  from  another. 

"  Drive  'em  into  the  barn-yard!"  was  the 
cry. 

Now  and  then  there  was  a  fearful  bang  and  a 
howl  of  death-agony,  as  some  dog  tried  to  break 
through  the  encircling  men,  who  yelled  and 
cursed  as  they  closed  in  on  the  trembling  brutes 
that  slunk  together  and  crept  on;  for  it  is  said, 
every  sheep-killing  dog  knows  his  fate  if  caught, 
and  will  make  little  effort  to  escape.  With  them 
went  Satan,  through  the  barn-yard  gate,  where 
they  huddled  in  a  corner — a  shamed  and  terri 
fied  group.  A  tall  overseer  stood  at  the  gate. 

"  Ten  of  'em !  "  he  said  grimly. 

He  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  just  such  a 
tragedy,  for  there  had  recently  been  a  sheep-kill 
ing  raid  on  several  farms  in  that  neighborhood, 
and  for  several  nights  he  had  had  a  lantern  hung 
out  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  to  scare  the  dogs 
away;  but  a  drunken  farm-hand  had  neglected 
his  duty  that  Christmas  Eve. 
90 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

"  Yassuh,  an'  dey's  jus'  sebenteen  dead  sheep 
out  dar,"  said  a  negro. 

"  Look  at  the  little  one,"  said  a  tall  boy  who 
looked  like  the  overseer;  and  Satan  knew  that 
he  spoke  of  him. 

"  Go  back  to  the  house,  son,"  said  the  over 
seer,  "  and  tell  your  mother  to  give  you  a  Christ 
mas  present  I  got  for  you  yesterday."  With  a 
glad  whoop  the  boy  dashed  away,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  dashed  back  with  a  brand-new  .32  Win 
chester  in  his  hand. 

The  dark  hour  before  dawn  was  just  break 
ing  on  Christmas  Day.  It  was  the  hour  when 
Satan  usually  rushed  upstairs  to  see  if  his  little 
mistress  was  asleep.  If  he  were  only  at  home 
now,  and  if  he  only  had  known  how  his  little 
mistress  was  weeping  for  him  amid  her  play 
things  and  his — two  new  balls  and  a  brass- 
studded  collar  with  a  silver  plate  on  which  was 
his  name,  Satan  Dean;  and  if  Dinnie  could  have 
seen  him  now,  her  heart  would  have  broken ;  for 
the  tall  boy  raised  his  gun.  There  was  a  jet  of 
smoke,  a  sharp,  clean  crack,  and  the  funeral  dog 
started  on  the  right  way  at  last  toward  his  dead 
master.  Another  crack,  and  the  yellow  cur 
leaped  from  the  ground  and  fell  kicking.  An 
other  crack  and  another,  and  with  each  crack  a 
dog  tumbled,  until  little  Satan  sat  on  his 
haunches  amid  the  writhing  pack,  alone.  His 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

time  was  now  come.  As  the  rifle  was  raised, 
he  heard  up  at  the  big  house  the  cries  of  chil 
dren;  the  popping  of  fire-crackers;  tooting  of 
horns  and  whistles  and  loud  shouts  of  "  Christ 
mas  Gif ',  Christmas  Gif ' !  "  His  little  heart 
beat  furiously.  Perhaps  he  knew  just  what  he 
was  doing;  perhaps  it  was  the  accident  of  habit; 
most  likely  Satan  simply  wanted  to  go  home — 
but  when  that  gun  rose,  Satan  rose  too,  on  his 
haunches,  his  tongue  out,  his  black  eyes  steady 
and  his  funny  little  paws  hanging  loosely — and 
begged !  The  boy  lowered  the  gun. 

"  Down,  sir!  "  Satan  dropped  obediently, 
but  when  the  gun  was  lifted  again,  Satan  rose 
again,  and  again  he  begged. 

"  Down,  I  tell  you !  "  This  time  Satan  would 
not  down,  but  sat  begging  for  his  life.  The 
boy  turned. 

"  Papa,  I  can't  shoot  that  dog."  Perhaps 
Satan  had  reached  the  stern  old  overseer's  heart. 
Perhaps  he  remembered  suddenly  that  it  was 
Christmas.  At  any  rate,  he  said  gruffly: 

"  Well,  let  him  go." 

"  Come  here,  sir !  "  Satan  bounded  toward 
the  tall  boy,  frisking  and  trustful  and  begged 
again. 

"Go  home,  sir!" 

Satan  needed  no  second  command.  Without 
a  sound  he  fled  out  the  barn-yard,  and,  as  he 
92 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAtf 

swept  under  the  front  gate,  a  little  girl  ran  out 
of  the  front  door  of  the  big  house  and  dashed 
down  the  steps,  shrieking : 

"  Saty!  Saty!  Oh,  Saty!  "  But  Satan  never 
heard.  On  he  fled,  across  the  crisp  fields,  leaped 
the  fence  and  struck  the  road,  lickety-split !  for 
home,  while  Dinnie  dropped  sobbing  in  the 
snow. 

"  Hitch  up  a  horse,  quick,"  said  Uncle  Carey, 
rushing  after  Dinnie  and  taking  her  up  in  his 
arms.  Ten  minutes  later,  Uncle  Carey  and  Din 
nie,  both  warmly  bundled  up,  were  after  flying 
Satan.  They  never  caught  him  until  they 
reached  the  hill  on  the  outskirts  of  town,  where 
was  the  kennel  of  the  kind-hearted  people  who 
were  giving  painless  death  to  Satan's  four-footed 
kind,  and  where  they  saw  him  stop  and  turn 
'from  the  road.  There  was  divine  providence 
in  Satan's  flight  for  one  little  dog  that  Christ 
mas  morning;  for  Uncle  Carey  saw  the  old 
drunkard  staggering  down  the  road  without 
his  little  companion,  and  a  moment  later,  both 
he  and  Dinnie  saw  Satan  nosing  a  little  yel 
low  cur  between  the  palings.  Uncle  Carey 
knew  the  little  cur,  and  while  Dinnie  was 
shrieking  for  Satan,  he  was  saying  under  his 
breath : 

"Well,  I  swear! — I  swear! — I  swear!" 
And  while  the  big  man  who  came  to  the  door 
93 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

was  putting  Satan  into  Dinnie's  arms,  he  said, 
sharply : 

"  Who  brought  that  yellow  dog  here?  "  The 
man  pointed  to  the  old  drunkard's  figure  turning 
a  corner  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

"  I  thought  so ;  I  thought  so.  He  sold  him  to 
you  for — for  a  drink  of  whiskey." 

The  man  whistled. 

u  Bring  him  out.      I'll  pay  his  license." 

So  back  went  Satan  and  the  little  cur  to 
Grandmother  Dean's — and  Dinnie  cried  when 
Uncle  Carey  told  her  why  he  was  taking  the  lit 
tle  cur  along.  With  her  own  hands  she  put 
Satan's  old  collar  on  the  little  brute,  took  him 
to  the  kitchen,  and  fed  him  first  of  all.  Then 
she  went  into  the  breakfast-room. 

"  Uncle  Billy,"  she  said  severely,  "  didn't  I 
tell  you  not  to  let  Saty  out?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Dinnie,"  said  the  old  butler. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  goin'  to  whoop  you 
if  you  let  Saty  out?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Dinnie." 

f        Miss  Dinnie  pulled  forth  from  her  Christ- 
\x  mas   treasures  a   toy  riding-whip   and  the  old 
darky's  eyes  began  to  roll  in  mock  terror. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Uncle  Billy,  but  I  des  got  to 
whoop  you  a  little." 

"  Let  Uncle  Billy  off,   Dinnie,"   said  Uncle 
Carey,  "  this  is  Christmas." 
94 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

"  All  wite,"  said  Dinnie,  and  she  turned  to 
Satan. 

In  his  shining  new  collar  and  innocent  as  a 
cherub,  Satan  sat  on  the  hearth  begging  for  his 
breakfast. 


95 


HELL-FER-SARTAIN 


TO 

MY   BROTHER 
JAMES 


ON   HELL-FER-SARTAIN   CREEK 

THAR  was  a  dancin'-party  Christmas  night 
on  "  Hell  fer  Sartain."  Jes  tu'n  up  the 
fust  crick  beyond  the  bend  thar,  an7  climb  onto  a 
stump,  an'  holler  about  once,  an'  you'll  see  how 
the  name  come.  Stranger,  hit's  hell  fer  sartain ! 
Well,  Rich  Harp  was  thar  from  the  headwaters, 
an'  Harve  Hall  toted  Nance  Osborn  clean  across 
the  Cumberlan'.  Fust  one  ud  swing  Nance,  an' 
then  t'other.  Then  they'd  take  a  pull  out'n  the 
same  bottle  o'  moonshine,  an' — fust  one  an'  then 
t'other — they'd  swing  her  agin.  An'  Abe  Shiv 
ers  a-settin'  thar  by  the  fire  a-bitin'  his  thumbs ! 
Well,  things  was  sorter  whoopin',  when  some 
body  ups  an'  tells  Harve  that  Rich  had  said 
somep'n'  agin  Nance  an'  him,  an'  somebody  ups 
an'  tells  Rich  that  Harve  had  said  somep'n'  agin 
Nance  an'  him.  In  a  minute,  stranger,  hit  was 
like  two  wild-cats  in  thar.  Folks  got  'em  parted, 
though,  but  thar  was  no  more  a-swingin'  of 
Nance  that  night.  Harve  toted  her  back  over 
the  Cumberlan',  an'  Rich's  kinsfolks  tuk  him  up 
"  Hell  fer  Sartain  " ;  but  Rich  got  loose,  an'  lit 
out  lickety-split  fer  Nance  Osborn's.  He 

99 


ON    HELL-FER-SARTAIN    CREEK 

knowed  Harve  lived  too  fer  over  Black  Moun 
tain  to  go  home  that  night,  an'  he  rid  right 
across  the  river  an'  up  to  Nance's  house,  an'  hol 
lered  for  Harve.  Harve  poked  his  head  out'n 
the  loft — he  knowed  whut  was  wanted — an' 
Harve  says,  "  Uh,  come  in  hyeh  an'  go  to  bed. 
Hit's  too  late !  "  An'  Rich  seed  him  a-gapin' 
like  a  chicken,  an'  in  he  walked,  stumblin'  might' 
nigh  agin  the  bed  whar  Nance  was  a-layin',  lis- 
tenin'  an'  not  sayin'  a  word. 

Stranger,  them  two  fellers  slept  together  plum 
frien'ly,  an'  they  et  together  plum  frien'ly  next 
mornin',  an'  they  sa'ntered  down  to  the  grocery 
plum  frien'ly.  An'  Rich  says,  "  Harve,"  says 
he,  "  let's  have  a  drink."  u  All  right,  Rich," 
says  Harve.  An'  Rich  says,  "  Harve,"  says 
he,  "  you  go  out'n  that  door  an'  I'll  go  out'n 
this  door."  "  All  right,  Rich,"  says  Harve,  an' 
out  they  walked,  steady,  an'  thar  was  two  shoots 
shot,  an'  Rich  an'  Harve  both  drapped,  an'  in 
ten  minutes  they  was  stretched  out  on  Nance's 
bed  an'  Nance  was  a-lopin'  away  fer  the  yarb 
doctor. 

The  gal  nussed  'em  both  plum  faithful.  Rich 
didn't  hev  much  to  say,  an'  Harve  didn't  hev 
much  to  say.  Nance  was  sorter  quiet,  an' 
Nance's  mammy,  ole  Nance,  jes  grinned.  Folks 
come  in  to  ax  atter  'em  right  peart.  Abe  Shiv 
ers  come  cl'ar  'cross  the  river — powerful  frien'ly 
100 


ON    HELL-FEK-SARTAItf    CKE£K;  ' ; 

— an'  ever'  time  Nance  ud  walk  out  to  the  fence 
with  him.  One  time  she  didn't  come  back,  an' 
ole  Nance  fotched  the  boys  thar  dinner,  an'  ole 
Nance  fotched  thar  supper,  an'  then  Rich  he 
axed  whut  was  the  matter  with  young  Nance. 
An'  ole  Nance  jes  snorted.  Atter  a  while  Rich 
says:  "  Harve,"  says  he,  "who  toP  you  that  I 
said  that  word  agin  you  an'  Nance?  "  "  Abe 
Shivers,"  says  Harve.  "  An'  who  toP  you," 
says  Harve,  "  that  I  said  that  word  agin  Nance 
an'  you?"  "Abe  Shivers,"  says  Rich.  An' 
both  says,  "  Well,  damn  me !  "  An'  Rich  tu'ned  / 
right  over  an'  begun  pullin'  straws  out'n  the  bed. 
He  got  two  out,  an'  he  bit  one  off,  an'  he  says : 
"  Harve,"  says  he,  "  I  reckon  we  better  draw  fer 
him.  The  shortes'  gits  him."  An'  they  drawed. 
Well,  nobody  ever  knowed  which  got  the  short 
es'  straw,  stranger,  but 

Thar'll  be  a  dancin'-party  comin'  Christmas 
night  on  "  Hell  fer  Sartain."  Rich  Harp  '11  be 
thar  from  the  headwaters.  Harve  Hall's  a-goin' 
to  tote  the  Widder  Shivers  clean  across  the 
Cumberlan'.  Fust  one  '11  swing  Nance,  an'  then 
t'other.  Then  they'll  take  a  pull  out'n  the 
same  bottle  o'  moonshine,  an' — fust  one  an'  then 
t'other — they'll  swing  her  agin,  jes  the  same. 
Abe  won't  be  thar.  He's  a-settin'  by  a  bigger 
fire,  I  reckon  (ef  he  ain't  in  it),  a-bitin'  his 
thumbs ! 

101 


THROUGH   THE   GAP 

WHEN  thistles  go  adrift,  the  sun  sets  down 
the  valley  between  the  hills ;  when  snow 
comes,  it  goes  down  behind  the  Cumberland  and 
streams  through  a  great  fissure  that  people  call 
the  Gap.  Then  the  last  light  drenches  the  par 
son's  cottage  under  Imboden  Hill,  and  leaves  an 
after-glow  of  glory  on  a  majestic  heap  that  lies 
against  the  east.  Sometimes  it  spans  the  Gap 
with  a  rainbow. 

Strange  people  and  strange  tales  come  through 
this  Gap  from  the  Kentucky  hills.  Through  it 
came  these  two,  late  one  day — a  man  and  a 
woman — afoot.  I  met  them  at  the  footbridge 
over  Roaring  Fork. 

"  Is  thar  a  preacher  anywhar  aroun'  hyeh?  " 
he  asked.  I  pointed  to  the  cottage  under  Imbo 
den  Hill.  The  girl  flushed  slightly  and  turned 
her  head  away  with  a  rather  unhappy  smile. 
Without  a  word,  the  mountaineer  led  the  way 
towards  town.  A  moment  more  and  a  half- 
breed  Malungian  passed  me  on  the  bridge  and 
followed  them. 

At  dusk  the  next  day  I  saw  the  mountaineer 
102 


THROUGH   THE    GAP 

chopping  wood  at  a  shanty  under  a  clump  of 
rhododendron  on  the  river-bank.  The  girl  was 
cooking  supper  inside.  The  day  following  he 
was  at  work  on  the  railroad,  and  on  Sunday, 
after  church,  I  saw  the  parson.  The  two  had 
not  been  to  him.  Only  that  afternoon  the  moun 
taineer  was  on  the  bridge  with  another  woman, 
hideously  rouged  and  with  scarlet  ribbons  flutter 
ing  from  her  bonnet.  Passing  on  by  the  shanty, 
I  saw  the  Malungian  talking  to  the  girl.  She 
apparently  paid  no  heed  to  him  until,  just  as  he 
was  moving  away,  he  said  something  mockingly, 
and  with  a  nod  of  his  head  back  towards  the 
bridge.  She  did  not  look  up  even  then,  but  her 
face  got  hard  and  white,  and,  looking  back  from 
the  road,  I  saw  her  slipping  through  the  bushes 
into  the  dry  bed  of  the  creek,  to  make  sure  that 
what  the  half-breed  told  her  was  true. 

The  two  men  were  working  side  by  side  on 
the  railroad  when  I  saw  them  again,  but  on  the 
first  pay-day  the  doctor  was  called  to  attend  the 
Malungian,  whose  head  was  split  open  with  a 
shovel.  I  was  one  of  two  who  went  out  to  ar 
rest  his  assailant,  and  I  had  no  need  to  ask  who 
he  was.  The  mountaineer  was  a  devil,  the  fore 
man  said,  and  I  had  to  club  him  with  a  pistol- 
butt  before  he  would  give  in.  He  said  he 
would  get  even  with  me;  but  they  all  say  that, 
and  I  paid  no  attention  to  the  threat.  For  a 
103 


THROUGH   THE    GAP 

week  he  was  kept  in  the  calaboose,  and  when  I 
passed  the  shanty  just  after  he  was  sent  to  the 
county-seat  for  trial,  I  found  it  empty.  The 
Malungian,  too,  was  gone.  Within  a  fortnight 
the  mountaineer  was  in  the  door  of  the  shanty 
again.  Having  no  accuser,  he  had  been  dis 
charged.  He  went  back  to  his  work,  and  if  he 
opened  his  lips  I  never  knew.  Every  day  I  saw 
him  at  work,  and  he  never  failed  to  give  me  a 
surly  look.  Every  dusk  I  saw  him  in  his  door 
way,  waiting,  and  I  could  guess  for  what.  It 
was  easy  to  believe  that  the  stern  purpose  in  his 
face  would  make  its  way  through  space  and 
draw  her  to  him  again.  And  she  did  come  back 
one  day.  I  had  just  limped  down  the  mountain 
with  a  sprained  ankle.  A  crowd  of  women  was 
gathered  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  looking  with 
all  their  eyes  to  the  shanty  on  the  river-bank. 
The  girl  stood  in  the  door-way.  The  mountain 
eer  was  coming  back  from  work  with  his  face 
down. 

"  He  hain't  seed  her  yit,"  said  one.  "  He's 
goin'  to  kill  her  shore.  I  toF  her  he  would.  She 
said  she  reckoned  he  would,  but  she  didn't  keer." 

For  a  moment  I  was  paralyzed  by  the  tragedy 
at  hand.  She  was  in  the  door  looking  at  him 
when  he  raised  his  head.  For  one  moment  he 
stood  still,  staring,  and  then  he  started  towards 
her  with  a  quickened  step.  I  started  too,  then, 
104 


THROUGH  THE  GAP 

every  step  a  torture,  and  as  I  limped  ahead  she 
made  a  gesture  of  terror  and  backed  into  the 
room  before  him.  The  door  closed,  and  I  lis 
tened  for  a  pistol-shot  and  a  scream.  It  must 
have  been  done  with  a  knife,  I  thought,  and 
quietly,  for  when  I  was  within  ten  paces  of  the 
cabin  he  opened  the  door  again.  His  face  was 
very  white;  he  held  one  hand  behind  him,  and 
he  was  nervously  fumbling  at  his  chin  with  the 
other.  As  he  stepped  towards  me  I  caught  the 
handle  of  a  pistol  in  my  side  pocket  and  waited. 
He  looked  at  me  sharply.  / 

"  Did  you  say  the  preacher  lived  up  thar?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  breathlessly. 

In  the  door-way  just  then  stood  the  girl  with 
a  bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  at  a  nod  from  him  they 
started  up  the  hill  towards  the  cottage.  They 
came  down  again  after  a  while,  he  stalking 
ahead,  and  she,  after  the  mountain  fashion,  be 
hind.  And  after  this  fashion  I  saw  them  at  sun 
set  next  day  pass  over  the  bridge  and  into  the 
mouth  of  the  Gap  whence  they  came.  Through  A 
this  Gap  come  strange  people  and  strange  tales  ^ 
from  the  Kentucky  hills.  Over  it,  sometimes,  is 
the  span  of  a  rainbow. 


105 


A   TRICK   O'   TRADE 

STRANGER,    I'm   a   separate  man,   an'   I 
don't  mquizite  into  no  man's  business;  but 
you  ax  me  straight,  an'  I  tell  ye  straight:  You 
watch  ole  Tom! 

Now,  I'll  take  ole  Tom  Perkins'  word  agin 
anybody's  'ceptin'  when  hit  comes  to  a  hoss 
trade  ur  a  piece  o'  land.  Per  in  the  tricks  o' 
sech,  ole  Tom  'lows — well,  hit's  diff'ent;  an'  I 
reckon,  stranger,  as  how  hit  sorter  is.  He  was 
a-stayin'  at  Tom's  house,  the  furriner  was,  a- 
dickerin'  fer  a  piece  o'  Ian' — the  same  piece, 
mebbe,  that  you're  atter  now — an'  Tom  keeps 
him  thar  fer  a  week  to  beat  him  out'n  a  dollar, 
/  an'  then  won't  let  him  pay  nary  a  cent  fer  his 
'  boa'd.  Now,  stranger,  that's  Tom. 

Well,  Abe  Shivers  was  a-workin'  fer  Tom — 
you've  heerd  tell  o'  Abe — an'  the  furriner  wasn't 
more'n  half  gone  afore  Tom  seed  that  Abe  was 
up  to  some  of  his  devilmint.  Abe  kin  hatch  up 
more  devilmint  in  a  minit  than  Satan  hisself  kin 
in  a  week;  so  Tom  jes  got  Abe  out'n  the  stable 
under  a  hoe-handle,  an'  toP  him  to  tell  the  whole 
thing  straight  ur  he'd  have  to  go  to  glory  right 
thar.  An'  Abe  toP ! 

106 


A   TRICK    0'   TEADE 

Tears  like  Abe  had  foun'  a  streak  o'  iron  ore 
on  the  Ian',  an'  had  racked  his  jinny  right  down 
to  Hazlan  an'  tol'  the  furriner,  who  was  thar 
a-buyin'  wild  lands  right  an'  left.  Co'se  Abe 
was  goin'  to  make  the  furriner  whack  up  fer 
gittin'  the  Ian'  so  cheap.  Well,  brother,  the  fur 
riner  come  up  to  Tom's  an'  got  Tom  into  one 
o'  them  new-fangled  trades  whut  the  furriners 
calls  a  option — t'other  feller  kin  git  out'n  hit, 
but  you  can't.  The  furriner  'lowed  he'd  send  his 
podner  up  thar  next  day  to  put  the  thing  in 
writin'  an'  close  up  the  trade.  Hit  looked  like 
ole  Tom  was  ketched  fer  shore,  an'  ef  Tom  did 
n't  ra'r,  I'd  tell  a  man.  He  jes  let  that  hoe-  , 
handle  drap  on  Abe  fer  'bout  haffen  hour,  jes  to  / 
give  him  time  to  study,  an'  next  day  thar  was  ole  / 
Tom  a-settin'  on  his  orchard  fence  a-lookin* 
mighty  unknowin',  when  the  furriner's  podner 
come  a-prancin'  up  an'  axed  ef  old  Tom  Per 
kins  lived  thar. 

Ole  Tom  jes  whispers. 

Now,  I  clean  fergot  to  tell  ye,  stranger,  that 
Abe  Shivers  nuver  could  talk  out  loud.  He  tol' 
so  many  lies  that  the  Lawd — jes  to  make  things 
even — sorter  fixed  Abe,  I  reckon,  so  he  couldn't 
lie  on  more'n  one  side  o'  the  river  at  a  time.  Ole 
Tom  jes  knowed  t'other  furriner  had  tol'  this 
un  'bout  Abe,  an',  shore  'nough,  the  feller  says, 
sorter  soft,  says  he : 

107 


A   TEICK    0'   TEADE 

"  Aw,  you  air  the  feller  whut  foun'  the  ore?  " 

Ole  Tom — makin'  like  he  was  Abe,  mind  ye 
— jes  whispers:  "  Thar  hain't  none  thar." 

Stranger,  the  feller  mos'  fell  off'n  his  hoss. 
"Whut?"  says  he.  Ole  Tom  kep'  a-whisper- 
in' :  "  Thar  hain't  no  ore — no  nothing;  ole  Tom 
Perkins  made  me  tell  t'other  furriner  them  lies." 

Well,  sir,  the  feller  was  mad.  "  Jes  whut  1 
tol'  that  fool  podner  of  mine,"  he  says,  an'  he 
pull  out  a  dollar  an'  gives  hit  to  Tom.  Tom 
jes  sticks  out  his  han'  with  his  thum'  turned  in 
jes  so,  an'  the  furriner  says,  "  Well,  ef  you  can't 
talk,  you  kin  make  purty  damn  good  signs  " ; 
but  he  forks  over  four  mo'  dollars  (he  'lowed 
ole  Tom  had  saved  him  a  pile  o'  money),  an' 
turns  his  hoss  an'  pulls  up  agin.  He  was  a-gittin' 
the  land  so  durned  cheap  that  I  reckon  he  jes 
hated  to  let  hit  go,  an'  he  says,  says  he :  "  Well, 
hain't  the  groun'  rich?  Won't  hit  raise  no  to- 
baccy  nur  corn  nur  nothin'  ?  " 

Ole  Tom  jes  whispers: 

"  To  tell  you  the  p'int-blank  truth,  stranger, 
that  land's  so  durned  pore  that  I  hain't  nuver 
been  able  to  raise  my  voice." 

Now,  brother,  I'm  a  separate  man,  an'  I  don't 
inquizite  into  no  man's  business — but  you  ax  me 
straight  an'  I  tell  ye  straight.  Ole  Tom  Per 
kins  kin  trade  with  furriners,  fer  he  have  1'arned 
their  ways.  You  watch  ole  Tom ! 
108 


GRAYSON'S   BABY 

THE  first  snow  sifted  in  through  the  Gap 
that  night,  and  in  a  "  shack  "  of  one  room  > 
and  a  low  loft  a  man  was  dead,  a  woman  was   \ 
sick  to  death,   and  four  children  were  barely     * 
alive;  and  nobody  even  knew.     For  they  were 
hill  people,  who  sicken,  suffer,  and  sometimes 
die,  like  animals,  and  make  no  noise. 

Grayson,  the  Virginian,  coming  down  from 
the  woods  that  morning,  saw  the  big-hearted  lit 
tle  doctor  outside  the  door  of  the  shack,  walking 
up  and  down,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He 
was  whistling  softly  when  Grayson  got  near, 
and,  without  stopping,  pointed  with  his  thumb 
within.  The  oldest  boy  sat  stolidly  on  the  one 
chair  in  the  room,  his  little  brother  was  on  the 
floor  hard  by,  and  both  were  hugging  a  greasy 
stove.  The  little  girl  was  with  her  mother  in 
the  bed,  both  almost  out  of  sight  under  a  heap  of 
quilts.  The  baby  was  in  a  cradle,  with  its  face 
uncovered,  whether  dead  or  asleep  Grayson 
could  not  tell.  A  pine  coffin  was  behind  the 
door.  It  would  not  have  been  possible  to  add 
109 


GBAYSON'S    BABY 

to  the  disorder  of  the  room,  and  the  atmosphere 
made  Grayson  gasp.  He  came  out  looking 
white.  The  first  man  to  arrive  thereafter  took 
away  the  eldest  boy,  a  woman  picked  the  baby 
girl  from  the  bed,  and  a  childless  young  couple 
took  up  the  pallid  little  fellow  on  the  floor. 
These  were  step-children.  The  baby  boy  that 
was  left  was  the  woman's  own.  Nobody  came 
for  that,  and  Grayson  went  in  again  and  looked 
at  it  a  long  while.  So  little,  so  old  a  human  face 
he  had  never  seen.  The  brow  was  wrinkled  as 
with  centuries  of  pain,  and  the  little  drawn 
mouth  looked  as  though  the  spirit  within  had 
fought  its  inheritance  without  a  murmur,  and 
would  fight  on  that  way  to  the  end.  It  was  the 
pluck  of  the  face  that  drew  Grayson.  "  I'll'take 
it,"  he  said.  The  doctor  was  not  without  his 
sense  of  humor  even  then,  but  he  nodded.  "  Cra 
dle  and  all,"  he  said,  gravely.  And  Grayson  put 
both  on  one  shoulder  and  walked  away.  He  had 
lost  the  power  of  giving  further  surprise  in  that 
town,  and  had  he  met  every  man  he  knew,  not 
one  of  them  would  have  felt  at  liberty  to  ask 
him  what  he  was  doing.  An  hour  later  the 
doctor  found  the  child  in  Grayson's  room,  and 
Grayson  still  looking  at  it. 

"  Is  it  going  to  live,  doctor?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  Doubtful. 
Look  at  the  color.  It's  starved.  There's  noth- 
no 


GEAYSON'S   BABY 

ing  to  do  but  to  watch  it  and  feed  it.    You  can 
do  that." 

So  Grayson  watched  it,  with  a  fascination  of 
which  he  was  hardly  conscious.  Never  for  one 
instant  did  its  look  change — the  quiet,  unyielding 
endurance  that  no  faith  and  no  philosophy  could 
ever  bring  to  him.  It  was  ideal  courage,  that  j 
look,  to  accept  the  inevitable  but  to  fight  it  just 
that  way.  Half  the  little  mountain  town  was 
talking  next  day — that  such  a  tragedy  was  pos 
sible  by  the  public  road-side,  with  relief  within 
sound  of  the  baby's  cry.  The  oldest  boy  was 
least  starved.  Might  made  right  in  an  extremity 
like  his,  and  the  boy  had  taken  care  of  himself. 
The  young  couple  who  had  the  second  lad  in 
charge  said  they  had  been  wakened  at  daylight 
the  next  morning  by  some  noise  in  the  room. 
Looking  up,  they  saw  the  little  fellow  at  the 
fireplace  breaking  an  egg.  He  had  built  a  fire, 
had  got  eggs  from  the  kitchen,  and  was  cooking 
his  breakfast.  The  little  girl  was  mischievous 
and  cheery  in  spite  of  her  bad  plight,  and  nobody 
knew  of  the  baby  except  Grayson  and  the  doc 
tor.  Grayson  would  let  nobody  else  in.  As  soon 
as  it  was  well  enough  to  be  peevish  and  to  cry,  he 
took  it  back  to  its  mother,  who  was  still  abed.  A 
long,  dark  mountaineer  was  there,  of  whom  the 
woman  seemed  half  afraid.  He  followed  Gray- 
son  outside. 

in 


GRAYSON'S   BABY 

u  Say,  podner,"  he  said,  with  an  unpleasant 
smile,  "  ye  don't  go  up  to  Cracker's  Neck  fer 
nothin',  do  ye?  " 

The  woman  had  lived  at  Cracker's  Neck  be 
fore  she  appeared  at  the  Gap,  and  it  did  not 
come  to  Grayson  what  the  man  meant  until  he 
was  half-way  to  his  room.  Then  he  flushed  hot 
and  wheeled  back  to  the  cabin,  but  the  moun 
taineer  was  gone. 

"  Tell  that  fellow  he  had  better  keep  out  of 
my  way,"  he  said  to  the  woman,  who  understood, 
and  wanted  to  say  something,  but  not  knowing 
how,  nodded  simply.  In  a  few  days  the  other 
children  went  back  to  the  cabin,  and  day  and 
night  Grayson  went  to  see  the  child,  until  it  was 
out  of  danger,  and  afterwards.  It  was  not  long 
before  the  women  in  town  complained  that  the 
mother  was  ungrateful.  When  they  sent  things 
to  eat  to  her  the  servant  brought  back  word  thai: 
she  had  called  out,  "  *  Set  them  over  thar,'  with 
out  so  much  as  a  thanky."  One  message  was 
that  "  she  didn'  want  no  second-hand  victuals 
from  nobody's  table."  Somebody  suggested 
sending  the  family  to  the  poor-house.  The 
mother  said  "  she'd  go  out  on  her  crutches  and 
hoe  corn  fust,  and  that  the  people  who  talked 
,  'bout  sendin'  her  to  the  po'house  had  better 
/  save  their  breath  to  make  prayers  with."  One 
day  she  was  hired  to  do  some  washing.  The 
112 


GEAYSON'S   BABY 

mistress  of  the  house  happened  not  to  rise  un 
til  ten  o'clock.  Next  morning  the  mountain 
woman  did  not  appear  until  that  hour.  "  She 
wasn't  goin'  to  work  a  lick  while  that  woman 
was  a-layin'  in  bed,"  she  said,  frankly.  And 
when  the  lady  went  down  town,  she  too  dis 
appeared.  Nor  would  she,  she  explained  to 
Grayson,  "  while  that  woman  was  a-struttin' 
the  streets." 

After  that,  one  by  one,  they  let  her  alone,  and 
the  woman  made  not  a  word  of  complaint. 
Within  a  week  she  was  working  in  the  fields, 
when  she  should  have  been  back  in  bed.  The 
result  was  that  the  child  sickened  again.  The  old 
look  came  back  to  its  face,  and  Grayson  was 
there  night  and  day.  He  was  having  trouble  out 
in  Kentucky  about  this  time,  and  he  went  to  the 
Blue  Grass  pretty  often.  Always,  however,  he 
left  money  with  me  to  see  that  the  child  was 
properly  buried  if  it  should  die  while  he  was 
gone ;  and  once  he  telegraphed  to  ask  how  it  was. 
He  said  he  was  sometimes  afraid  to  open  my 
letters  for  fear  that  he  should  read  that  the  baby 
was  dead.  The  child  knew  Grayson's  voice,  his 
step.  It  would  go  to  him  from  its  own  mother. 
When  it  was  sickest  and  lying  torpid  it  would 
move  the  instant  he  stepped  into  the  room,  and, 
when  he  spoke,  would  hold  out  its  thin  arms, 
without  opening  its  eyes,  and  for  hours  Grayson 


GKAYSON'S    BABY 

would  walk  the  floor  with  the  troubled  little 
baby  over  his  shoulder.  I  thought  several  times 
it  would  die  when,  on  one  trip,  Grayson  was 
away  for  two  weeks.  One  midnight,  indeed,  I 
found  the  mother  moaning,  and  three  female 
harpies  about  the  cradle.  The  baby  was  dying 
this  time,  and  I  ran  back  for  a  flask  of  whiskey. 
Ten  minutes  late  with  the  whiskey  that  night 
would  have  been  too  late.  The  baby  got  to  know 
me  and  my  voice  during  that  fortnight,  but  it 
was  still  in  danger  when  Grayson  got  back,  and 
we  went  to  see  it  together.  It  was  very  weak, 
and  we  both  leaned  over  the  cradle,  from  either 
side,  and  I  saw  the  pity  and  affection — yes,  hun 
gry,  half-shamed  affection — in  Grayson's  face. 
The  child  opened  its  eyes,  looked  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  held  out  its  arms  to  me.  Grayson 
should  have  known  that  the  child  forgot — that 
it  would  forget  its  own  mother.  He  turned 
sharply,  and  his  face  was  a  little  pale.  He  gave 
something  to  the  woman,  and  not  till  then  did  I 
notice  that  her  soft  black  eyes  never  left  him 
while  he  was  in  the  cabin.  The  child  got  well; 
but  Grayson  never  went  to  the  shack  again,  and 
he  said  nothing  when  I  came  in  one  night  and 
told  him  that  some  mountaineer — a  long,  dark 
fellow — had  taken  the  woman,  the  children, 
and  the  household  gods  of  the  shack  back  into 
the  mountains. 

114 


GEAYSON'S    BABY 

"  They  don't  grieve  long,"  I  said,  "  these 
people." 

But  long  afterwards  I  saw  the  woman  again 
along  the  dusty  road  that  leads  into  the  Gap. 
She  had  heard  over  in  the  mountains  that  Gray- 
son  was  dead,  and  had  walked  for  two  days  to 
learn  if  it  was  true.  I  pointed  back  towards  Bee 
Rock,  and  told  her  that  he  had  fallen  from  a 
cliff  back  there.  She  did  not  move,  nor  did  her 
look  change.  Moreover,  she  said  nothing,  and, 
being  in  a  hurry,  I  had  to  ride  on. 

At  the  foot-bridge  over  Roaring  Fork  I 
looked  back.  The  woman  was  still  there,  under 
the  hot  mid-day  sun  and  in  the  dust  of  the  road, 
motionless. 


COURTIN'    ON    CUTSHIN 

HIT  was  this  way,  stranger.  When  hit 
comes  to  handlin'  a  right  peert  gal,  Jeb 
Somers  air  about  the  porest  man  on  Fryin'  Pan, 
I  reckon;  an'  Polly  Ann  Sturgill  have  got  the 
vineg'rest  tongue  on  Cutshin  or  any  other  crick. 
So  the  boys  over  on  Fryin'  Pan  made  it  up  to 
git  'em  together.  Abe  Shivers — you've  heerd 
tell  o'  Abe — toP  Jeb  that  Polly  Ann  had  seed 
him  in  Hazlan  (which  she  hadn't,  of  co'se),  an' 
had  said  p'int-blank  that  he  was  the  likeliest  fel 
ler  she'd  seed  in  them  mountains.  An'  he  toP 
Polly  Ann  that  Jeb  was  ravin'  crazy  'bout  her. 
The  pure  misery  of  it  jes  made  him  plumb  de 
lirious,  Abe  said;  an'  'f  Polly  Ann  wanted  to 
find  her  match  fer  languige  an'  talkin'  out  peert 
— well,  she  jes  ought  to  strike  Jeb  Somers.  Fact 
is,  stranger,  Jeb  Somers  air  might'  nigh  a  idgit; 
but  Jeb  'lowed  he'd  rack  right  over  on  Cutshin 
an'  set  up  with  Polly  Ann  Sturgill ;  an'  Abe  tells 
Polly  Ann  the  king  bee  air  comin'.  An'  Polly 
Ann's  cousin,  Nance  Osborn,  comes  over  from 
Hell  fer  Sartain  (whut  runs  into  Kingdom- 
Come)  to  stay  all  night  an'  see  the  fun. 
116 


COUKTIN'    ON    CUTSHIN 

Now,  I  hain't  been  a-raftin'  logs  down  to  the 
settlemints  o'  Kaintuck  fer  nigh  on  to  twenty 
year  fer  nothin'.  An'  I  know  gallivantin'  is 
diff'ent  with  us  mountain  fellers  an'  you  furriners, 
in  the  premises,  anyways,  as  them  lawyers  up  to 
court  says;  though  I  reckon  hit's  purty  much  the 
same  atter  the  premises  is  over.  Whar  you  says 
"  courtin',"  now,  we  says  "  talkin'  to."  Sallie 
Spurlock  over  on  Fryin'  Pan  is  a-talkin'  to  Jim 
Howard  now.  Sallie's  sister  hain't  nuver  talked 
to  no  man.  An'  whar  you  says  "  makin'  a  call 
on  a  young  lady,"  we  says  "  settfn'  up  with  a 
gal  "  !  An',  stranger,  we  does  it.  We  hain't  got 
more'n  one  room  hardly  ever  in  these  mountains, 
an'  we're  jes  obleeged  to  set  up  to  do  any  court- 
in'  at  all. 

Well,  you  go  over  to  Sallie's  to  stay  all  night 
some  time,  an'  purty  soon  atter  supper  Jim  How 
ard  comes  in.  The  ole  man  an'  the  ole  woman 
goes  to  bed,  an'  the  chil'un  an'  you  go  to  bed,  an' 
ef  you  keeps  one  eye  open  you'll  see  Jim's  cheer 
an'  Sallie's  cheer  a-movin'  purty  soon,  till  they 
gets  plumb  together.  Then,  stranger,  hit  begins. 
Now  I  want  ye  to  understand  that  settin'  up 
means  business.  We  don't  'low  no  foolishness  in 
these  mountains;  an'  'f  two  fellers  happens  to 
meet  at  the  same  house,  they  jes  makes  the  gal 
say  which  one  she  likes  best,  an'  t'other  one  gits  I 
Well,  you'll  see  Jim  put  his  arm  'round  Sallie's 
117 


COURTIS    ON   CUTSHIN 

neck  an'  whisper  a  long  while — jes  so.  Mebbe 
you've  noticed  whut  fellers  us  mountain  folks  air 
fer  whisperin'.  You've  seed  fellers  a-whisperin' 
all  over  Hazlan  on  court  day,  hain't  ye?  Ole 
Tom  Perkins  '11  put  his  arm  aroun'  yo'  neck  an' 
whisper  in  yo'  year  ef  he's  ten  miles  out'n  the 
woods.  I  reckon  thar's  jes  so  much  devilmint 
a-goin'  on  in  these  mountains,  folks  is  naturely 
afeerd  to  talk  out  loud. 

Well,  Jim  lets  go  an'  Sallie  puts  her  arm 
aroun'  Jim's  neck  an'  whispers  a  long  while — jes 
so;  an'  'f  you  happen  to  wake  up  anywhar  to 
two  o'clock  in  the  mornin'  you'll  see  jes  that 
a-goin'  on.  Brother,  that's  settin'  up. 

Well,  Jeb  Somers,  as  I  was  a-sayin'  in  the 
premises,  'lowed  he'd  rack  right  over  on  Cutshin 
an'  set  up  with  Polly  Ann  comin'  Christmas  night. 
An'  Abe  tells  Polly  Ann  Jeb  says  he  aims  to  have 
her  fer  a  Christmas  gift  afore  mornin'.  Polly 
Ann  jes  sniffed  sorter,  but  you  know  women  folks 
air  always  mighty  ambitious  jes  to  see  a  feller 
anyways,  'f  he's  a-pinin'  fer  'em.  So  Jeb  come, 
an'  Jeb  was  fixed  up  now  fittin'  to  kill.  Jeb  had 
his  hair  oiled  down  nice  an'  slick,  and  his  mus 
tache  was  jes  black  as  powder  could  make  hit. 
Naturely  hit  was  red ;  but  a  feller  can't  do  noth- 
in'  in  these  mountains  with  a  red  mustache ;  an' 
Jeb  had  a  big  black  ribbon  tied  in  the  butt  o'  the 
bigges'  pistol  Abe  Shivers  could  borrer  fer  him — 
118 


COURTIS    ON    CUTSHIN 

hit  was  a  badge  o'  death  an'  deestruction  to  his 
enemies,  Abe  said,  an'  I  tell  ye  Jeb  did  look  like 
a  man.  He  never  opened  his  mouth  atter  he 
says  "howdy"  —  Jeb  never  does  say  nothin'; 
Jeb's  one  o'  them  fellers  whut  hides  thar  lack  o' 
brains  by  a-lookin'  solemn  an'  a-keepin'  still,  but 
thar  don't  nobody  say  much  tell  the  ole  folks  air 
gone  to  bed,  an'  Polly  Ann  jes  'lowed  Jeb  was 
a-waitin'.  Fact  is,  stranger,  Abe  Shivers  had  got 
Jeb  a  leetle  disguised  by  liquer,  an'  he  did  look 
fat  an'  sassy,  ef  he  couldn't  talk,  a-settin'  over 
in  the  corner  a-plunkin  the  banjer  an'  a-knockin' 
off  "  Sour-wood  Mountain  "  an'  "  Jinny  Git 
Aroun'  "  an'  "  Soapsuds  over  the  Fence." 

"  Chickens  a-crowin'  on  Sour-wood  Mountain, 

Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee! 
Git  yo'  dawgs  an*  we'll  go  huntin', 
Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee! " 

An'  when  Jeb  comes  to 

"  I've  got  a  gal  at  the  head  o*  the  holler, 
Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee!" 

he  jes  turns  one  eye  'round  on  Polly  Ann,  an' 
then  swings  his  chin  aroun'  as  though  he  didn't 
give  a  cuss  fer  nothin'. 

"  She  won't  come,  an*  I  won't  roller, 
Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedy-dahdy-dee  I " 
119 


COURTIN'    ON    CUTSHLN" 

Well,  sir,  Nance  seed  that  Polly  Ann  was 
a-eyin'  Jeb  sort  o'  flustered  like,  an'  she  come 
might'  nigh  splittin'  right  thar  an'  a-sp'ilin'  the 
fun,  fer  she  knowed  what  a  skeery  fool  Jeb  was. 
An'  when  the  ole  folks  goes  to  bed,  Nance  lays 
thar  under  a  quilt  a-watchin'  an'  a-listenin'. 
Well,  Jeb  knowed  the  premises,  ef  he  couldn't 
talk,  an'  purty  soon  Nance  heerd  Jeb's  cheer 
creak  a  leetle,  an'  she  says,  Jeb's  a-comin',  and 
Jeb  was;  an'  Polly  Ann  'lowed  Jeb  was  jes  a 
leetle  too  resolute  an'  quick-like,  an'  she  got  her 
hand  ready  to  give  him  one  lick  anyways  fer 
bein'  so  brigaty.  I  don't  know  as  she'd  'a'  hit 
him  more'n  once.  Jeb  had  a  farm,  an'  Polly 
Ann — well,  Polly  Ann  was  a-gittin'  along.  But 
Polly  Ann  sot  thar  jes  as  though  she  didn't  know 
Jeb  was  a-comin',  an'  Jeb  stopped  once  an'  says, 

*  You  hain't  got  nothin'  agin  me,  has  ye?  " 

An'  Polly  Ann  says,  sorter  quick, 

"Naw;ef  I  had,  I'd  push  it." 

Well,  Jeb  mos'  fell  off  his  cheer,  when,  ef  he 
hadn't  been  sech  a  skeery  idgit,  he'd  'a'  knowed 
that  Polly  Ann  was  plain  open  an'  shet  a-biddin' 
fer  him.  But  he  sot  thar  like  a  knot  on  a  log  fer 
haffen  hour,  an'  then  he  rickollected,  I  reckon, 
that  Abe  had  tol'  him  Polly  Ann  was  peppery 
an'  he  mustn't  mind,  fer  Jeb  begun  a-movin' 
ag'in  till  he  was  slam-bang  ag'in  Polly  Ann's 
cheer.  An'  thar  he  sot  like  a  punkin,  not  sayin' 
120 


COUBTDT    ON    CUTSHIN 

a  word  nur  doin'  nothin'.  An'  while  Polly  Ann 
was  a-wonderin'  ef  he  was  gone  plumb  crazy, 
blame  me  ef  that  durned  fool  didn't  turn  roun' 
to  that  peppery  gal  an'  say, 

"Booh,  Polly  Ann!" 

Well,  Nance  had  to  stuff  the  bedquilt  in  her 
mouth  right  thar  to  keep  from  hollerin'  out  loud, 
fer  Polly  Ann's  hand  was  a  hangin'  down  by  the 
cheer,  jes  a-waitin'  fer  a  job,  and  Nance  seed 
the  fingers  a-twitchin'.  An'  Jeb  waits  another 
haffen  hour,  an'  Jeb  says, 

"Ortern'tlbekilled?" 

"  Whut  fer?"  says  Polly  Ann,  sorter  sharp. 

An'  Jeb  says,  "  Fer  bein'  so  devilish." 

Well,  brother,  Nance  snorted  right  out  thar, 
an'  Polly  Ann  Sturgill's  hand  riz  up  jes  once;  an' 
I've  heerd  Jeb  Somers  say  the  next  time  he 
jumps  out  o'  the  Fryin'  Pan  he's  a-goin'  to  take 
hell-fire  'stid  o'  Cutshin  fer  a  place  to  light. 


121 


THE    MESSAGE    IN   THE   SAND 


T  RANGER,  you  furriners  don't  nuver  seem 
to  consider  that  a  woman  has  always  got  the 
devil  to  fight  in  two  people  at  once  !  Hit's  two 
agin  one,  I  tell  ye,  an'  hit  hain't  fa'r. 

That's  what  I  said  more'n  two  year  ago,  when 
Rosie  Branham  was  a-layin'  up  thar  at  Dave 
Hall's,  white  an'  mos'  dead.  An',  God,  boys,  I 
says,  that  leetle  thing  in  thar  by  her  shorely 
can't  be  to  blame, 

Thar  hain't  been  a  word  agin  Rosie  sence  ;  an', 
stranger,  I  reckon  thar  nuver  will  be.  Fer,  while 
the  gal  hain't  got  hide  o'  kith  or  kin,  thar  air  two 
fellers  up  hyeh  sorter  lookin'  atter  Rosie  ;  an'  one 
of  'em  is  the  shootin'es'  man  on  this  crick,  I  reck 
on,  'ceptone;  an',  stranger,  that's  t'other. 

Rosie  kep'  her  mouth  shet  fer  a  long  while; 
an'  I  reckon  as  how  the  feller  'lowed  she  wasn't 
goin'  to  tell.  Co'se  the  woman  folks  got  hit  out'n 
her  —  they  al'ays  gits  whut  they  want,  as  you 
know  —  an'  thar  the  sorry  cuss  was  —  a-livin'  up 
thar  in  the  Bend,  jes  aroun'  that  bluff  o'  lorrel 
yander,  a-lookin'  pious,  an'  a-singin',  an'  a-sayin' 
Amen  louder  'n  anybody  when  thar  was  meetin'. 
122 


THE    MESSAGE    IN   THE    SAND 

Well,  my  boy  Jim  an'  a  lot  o'  fellers  jes  went 
up  fer  him  right  away.  I  don't  know  as  the  boys 
would  'a'  killed  him  exactly  ef  they  had  kotched 
him,  though  they  mought ;  but  they  got  Abe  Shiv 
ers,  as  toP  the  feller  they  was  a-comin' — you've 
heard  tell  o'  Abe — an'  they  mos'  beat  Abraham 
Shivers  to  death.  Stranger,  the  sorry  cuss  was 
Dave.  Rosie  hadn't  no  daddy  an'  no  mammy; 
an'  she  was  jes  a-workin'  at  Dave's  fer  her 
victuals  an'  clo'es.  'Pears  like  the  pore  gal 
was  jes  tricked  into  evil.  Looked  like  she  was 
sorter  'witched  —  an'  anyways,  stranger,  she 
was  a-fightin'  Satan  in  herself,  as  well  as  in 
Dave.  Hit  was  two  agin  one,  I  tell  ye,  an'  hit 
wasn't  fa'r. 

C'ose  they  turned  Rosie  right  out  in  the  road. 
I  hain't  got  a  word  to  say  agin  Dave's  wife  fer 
that;  an'  atter  a  while  the  boys  lets  Dave  come 
back,  to  take  keer  o'  his  ole  mammy,  of  co'se, 
but  I  tell  ye  Dave's  a-playin'  a  purty  lonsesome 
tune.  He  keeps  purty  shy  ylt.  He  don't  nuver 
sa'nter  down  this  way.  'Pears  like  he  don't 
seem  to  think  hit's  healthy  fer  him  down  hyeh, 
an'  I  reckon  Dave's  right. 

Rosie?  Oh,  well,  I  sorter  tuk  Rosie  in  my 
self.  Yes,  she's  been  livin'  thar  in  the  shack 
with  me  an'  my  boy  Jim,  an'  the —  Why,  thar 
he  is  now,  stranger.  That's  him  a-wallerin'  out 
thar  in  the  road.  Do  you  reckon  thar'd  be  a 
123 


THE    MESSAGE    IN   THE    SAND 

single  thing  agin  that  leetle  cuss  ef  he  had  to 
stan'  up  on  Jedgment  Day  jes  as  he  is  now? 

Look  hyeh,  stranger,  whut  you  reckon  the 
Lawd  kep'  a-writin'  thar  on  the  groun'  that  day 
when  them  fellers  was  a-pesterin'  him  about  that 
pore  woman?  Don't  you  jes  know  he  was  a 
writin'  'bout  sech  as  him — an'  Rosie?  I  tell 
ye,  brother,  he  writ  thar  jes  what  I'm  al'ays 
a-sayin'. 

Hit  hain't  the  woman's  fault.  I  said  it 
more'n  two  years  ago,  when  Rosie  was  up  thar 
at  ole  Dave's,  an'  I  said  it  yestiddy,  when  my 
boy  Jim  come  to  me  an'  'lowed  as  how  he  aimed 
to  take  Rosie  down  to  town  to-day  an'  git  mar 
ried. 

1  You  ricollect,  dad,"  says  Jim,  "  her  mam 
my?" 

"Yes,  Jim,"  I  says;  "all  the  better  reason 
not  to  be  too  hard  on  Rosie." 

I'm  a-lookin'  fer  'em  both  back  right  now, 
stranger;  an'  ef  you  will,  I'll  be  mighty  glad  to 
have  ye  stay  right  hyeh  to  the  infair  this  very 
night.  Thar  nuver  was  a  word  agin  Rosie 
afore,  thar  hain't  been  sence,  an'  you  kin  ride  up 
an'  down  this  river  till  the  crack  o'  doom  an* 
you'll  nuver  hear  a  word  agin  her  ag'in.  Fer, 
as  I  toF  you,  my  boy,  Jim  :s  the  shootin'es'  fel 
ler  on  this  crick,  I  reckon,  'cept  one,  an',  stran 
ger,  that's  me! 

124 


THE   SENATOR'S   LAST   TRADE 

A  DROVE  of  lean  cattle  were  swinging 
easily  over  Black  Mountain,  and  behind 
them  came  a  big  man  with  wild  black  hair  and 
a  bushy  beard.  Now  and  then  he  would  gnaw 
at  his  mustache  with  his  long,  yellow  teeth, 
or  would  sit  down  to  let  his  lean  horse  rest,  and 
would  flip  meaninglessly  at  the  bushes  with  a 
switch.  Sometimes  his  bushy  head  would  droop 
over  on  his  breast,  and  he  would  snap  it  up 
sharply  and  start  painfully  on.  Robber,  cattle- 
thief,  outlaw  he  might  have  been  in  another  cen 
tury;  for  he  filled  the  figure  of  any  robber  hero 
in  life  or  romance,  and  yet  he  was  only  the  Sen 
ator  from  Bell,  as  he  was  known  in  the  little 
Kentucky  capital;  or,  as  he  was  known  in  his 
mountain  home,  just  the  Senator,  who  had  toiled 
and  schemed  and  grown  rich  and  grown  poor; 
who  had  suffered  long  and  was  kind. 

Only  that  Christmas  he  had  gutted  every 
store  in  town.  "  Give  me  everything  you  have, 
brother,"  he  said,  across  each  counter;  and  next 
day  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  moun 
tain  town  had  a  present  from  the  Senator's 
125 


THE    SENATOR'S    LAST    TRADE 

hands.  He  looked  like  a  brigand  that  day, 
as  he  looked  now,  but  he  called  every  man 
his  brother,  and  his  eye,  while  black  and  lus 
treless  as  night,  was  as  brooding  and  just  as 
kind. 

When  the  boom  went  down,  with  it  and  with 
everybody  else  went  the  Senator.  Slowly  he  got 
dusty,  ragged,  long  of  hair.  He  looked  tor 
tured  and  ever-restless.  You  never  saw  him 
still;  always  he  swept  by  you,  flapping  his  legs 
on  his  lean  horse  or  his  arms  in  his  rickety  bug 
gy  here,  there,  everywhere  —  turning,  twisting, 
fighting  his  way  back  to  freedom — and  not  a 
murmur.  Still  was  every  man  his  brother,  and 
if  some  forgot  his  once  open  hand,  he  forgot 
it  no  more  completely  than  did  the  Senator.  He 
went  very  far  to  pay  his  debts.  He  felt  honor 
bound,  indeed,  to  ask  his  sister  to  give  back  the 
farm  that  he  had  given  her,  which,  very  prop 
erly  people  said,  she  declined  to  do.  Nothing 
could  kill  hope  in  the  Senator's  breast;  he  would 
hand  back  the  farm  in  another  year,  he  said; 
but  the  sister  was  firm,  and  without  a  word  still, 
the  Senator  went  other  ways  and  schemed 
through  the  nights,  and  worked  and  rode  and 
walked  and  traded  through  the  days,  until  now, 
when  the  light  was  beginning  to  glimmer,  his 
end  was  come. 

This  was  the  Senator's  last  trade,  and  in 
126 


THE    SENATOR'S   LAST   TRADE 

sight,  down  in  a  Kentucky  valley,  was  home. 
Strangely  enough,  the  Senator  did  not  care  at  all, 
and  he  had  just  enough  sanity  left  to  wonder 
why,  and  to  be  worried.  It  was  the  "  walk 
ing  typhoid  "  that  had  caught  up  with  him,  andj 
he  was  listless,  and  he  made  strange  gestures 
and  did  foolish  things  as  he  stumbled  down  the 
mountain.  He  was  going  over  a  little  knoll 
now,  and  he  could  see  the  creek  that  ran  around 
his  house,  but  he  was  not  touched.  He  would 
just  as  soon  have  lain  down  right  where  he  was, 
or  have  turned  around  and  gone  back,  except 
that  it  was  hot  and  he  wanted  to  get  to  the  wa 
ter.  He  remembered  that  it  was  nigh  Christ 
mas;  he  saw  the  snow  about  him  and  the  cakes 
of  ice  in  the  creek.  He  knew  that  he  ought  not 
to  be  hot,  and  yet  he  was — so  hot  that  he  re 
fused  to  reason  with  himself  even  a  minute,  and 
hurried  on.  It  was  odd  that  it  should  be  so,  but 
just  about  that  time,  over  in  Virginia,  a  cattle- 
dealer,  nearing  home,  stopped  to  tell  a  neighbor 
how  he  had  tricked  some  black-whiskered  fool 
up  in  the  mountains.  It  may  have  been  just 
when  he  was  laughing  aloud  over  there,  that  the 
Senator,  over  here,  tore  his  woollen  shirt  from 
his  great  hairy  chest  and  rushed  into  the  icy 
stream,  clapping  his  arms  to  his  burning  sides 
and  shouting  in  his  frenzy. 

"  If  he  had  lived  a  little  longer,'1  said  a  con- 
127 


THE    SENATOR'S    LAST    TRADE 

stituent,  "  he  would  have  lost  the  next  election. 
He  hadn't  the  money,  you  know." 

"  If  he  had  lived  a  little  longer/*  said  the 
mountain  preacher  high  up  on  Yellow  Creek, 
"  I'd  have  got  that  trade  I  had  on  hand  with 
him  through.  Not  that  I  wanted  him  to  die, 
but  if  he  had  to — why " 

"  If  he  had  lived  a  little  longer,"  said  the 
Senator's  lawyer,  "  he  would  have  cleaned  off 
the  score  against  him." 

"  If  he  had  lived  a  little  longer,"  said  the 
Senator's  sister,  not  meaning  to  be  unkind,  "  he 
would  have  got  all  I  have." 

That  was  what  life  held  for  the  Senator. 
Death  was  more  kind. 


128 


PREACHIN'    ON    KINGDOM-COME 

I'VE  told  ye,  stranger,  that  Hell  fer  Sartain 
empties,  as  it  oughter,  of  co'se,  into  King 
dom-Come.  You  can  ketch  the  devil  'most  any 
day  in  the  week  on  Hell  fer  Sartain,  an'  some 
times  you  can  git  Glory  everlastin'  on  Kingdom- 
Come.  Hit's  the  only  meetin'-house  thar  in 
twenty  miles  aroun.' 

Well,  the  reg'lar  rider,  ole  Jim  Skaggs,  was 
dead,  an'  the  bretherin  was  a-lookin'  aroun'  fer 
somebody  to  step  into  ole  Jim's  shoes.  Thar'd 
been  one  young  feller  up  thar  from  the  settle- 
mints,  a-cavortin'  aroun',  an'  they  was  studyin* 
'bout  gittin'  him. 

"  Bretherin'  an'  sisteren,"  I  says,  atter  the 
lee  tie  chap  was  gone,  "he's  got  the  fortitood  to 
speak  an'  he  shorely  is  well  favored.  He's  got  a 
mighty  good  hawk  eye  fer  spyin'  out  evil — an' 
the  gals;  he  can  outholler  ole  Jim;  an'  j/,"  I 
says,  "  any  idees  ever  comes  to  him,  he'll  be  a 
hell-rouser  shore  —  but  they  ain't  comin' !  " 
An',  so  sayin',  I  takes  my  foot  in  my  hand  an' 
steps  fer  home. 

Stranger,  them  fellers  over  thar  hain't  seed 
129 


PKEACHIN'    Otf    KINGDOM-COME 

much  o'  this  world.  Lots  of  'em  nuver  seed  the 
cyars;  some  of  'em  nuver  seed  a  wagon.  An' 
atter  jowerin'  an'  noratin'  fer  'bout  two  hours, 
what  you  reckon  they  said  they  aimed  to  do? 
They  believed  they'd  take  that  ar  man  Beecher, 
ef  they  could  git  him  to  come.  They'd  heerd  o* 
Henry  endurin'  the  war,  an'  they  knowed  he 
was  agin  the  rebs,  an'  they  wanted  Henry  if 
they  could  jes  git  him  to  come. 

Well,  I  snorted,  an'  the  feud  broke  out  on 
Hell  fer  Sartain  betwixt  the  Days  an'  the  Dil 
lons.  Mace  Day  shot  Daws  Dillon's  brother, 
as  I  rickollect  —  somep'n's  al'ays  a-startin'  up 
that  plaguey  war  an'  a-makin'  things  frolicsome 
over  thar  —  an'  ef  it  hadn't  a-been  fer  a  tall 
young  feller  with  black  hair  an'  a  scar  across 
his  forehead,  who  was  a-goin'  through  the 
mountains  a-settlin'  these  wars,  blame  me  ef  I 
believe  thar  ever  would  'a'  been  any  mo'  preach- 
in'  on  Kingdom-Come.  This  feller  comes  over 
from  Hazlan  an'  says  he  aims  to  hold  a  meetin' 
on  Kingdom-Come.  "  Brother,"  I  says,  "  that's 
what  no  preacher  have  ever  did  whilst  this  war 
is  a-goin'  on."  An'  he  says,  sort  o'  quiet, 
"  Well,  then,  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  do  what  no 
preacher  have  ever  did."  An'  I  ups  an'  says: 
"  Brother,  an  ole  jedge  come  up  here  once  from 
the  settlemints  to  hold  couht.  *  Jedge,'  I  says, 
'  that's  what  no  jedge  have  ever  did  without 
130 


PKEACHIN*    ON    KINGDOM-COME 

soldiers  since  this  war's  been  a-goin'  on.'     An', 
brother,    the    jedge's   words    was   yours,    p'int- 
blank.     '  All  right/  he  says,  l  then  I'll  have  to 
do  what  no  other  jedge  have  ever  did.'     An', 
brother,"   says  I  to  the  preacher,   u  the  jedge 
done  it  shore.     He  jes  laid  under  the  count-  \ 
house  fer  two  days  whilst  the  boys  fit  over  him.   \ 
An'  when  I  sees  the  jedge  a-makin'  tracks  fer 
the  settlemints,   I  says,   *  Jedge,'  I   says,   *  you 
spoke  a  parable  shore.'  ' 

Well,  sir,  the  long  preacher  looked  jes  as 
though  he  was  a-sayin'  to  hisself,  "  Yes,  I  hear 
ye,  but  I  don't  heed  ye,"  an'  when  he  says,  '*  Jes 
the  same,  I'm  a-goin'  to  hold  a  meetin'  on  King 
dom-Come,"  why,  I  jes  takes  my  foot  in  my 
hand  an'  ag'in  I  steps  fer  home. 

That  night,  stranger,  I  seed  another  feller 
from  Hazlan,  who  was  a-tellin'  how  this  here 
preacher  had  stopped  the  war  over  thar,  an'  had 
got  the  Marcums  an'  Braytons  to  shakin'  hands; 
an'  next  dny  ole  Tom  Perkins  stops  in  an'  says 
that  wharas  there  mought  'a'  been  preachin' 
somewhar  an'  sometime,  thar  nuver  had  been 
preachin'  afore  on  Kingdom-Come.  So  I  goes 
over  to  the  meetin'-house,  an'  they  was  all  thar 
— Daws  Dillon  an'  Mace  Day,  the  leaders  in 
the  war,  an'  Abe  Shivers  (you've  heerd  tell  o' 
Abe)  who  was  a-carryin'  tales  from  one  side  to  ^ 
t'other  an'  a-stirrin'  up  hell  ginerally,  as  Abe 


PREACHIN'    Otf    KINGDOM-COME 

most  al'ays  is;  an'  thar  was  Daws  on  one  side  o' 
the  meetin'-house  an'  Mace  on  t'other,  an'  both 
jes  a-watchin'  fer  t'other  to  make  a  move,  an* 
thar'd  'a'  been  billy-hell  to  pay  right  thar! 
Stranger,  that  long  preacher  talked  jes  as  easy 
as  I'm  a-talkin'  now,  an'  hit  was  p'int-blank  as 
the  feller  from  Hazlan  said.  You  jes  ought  'a' 
heerd  him  tellin'  about  the  Lawd  a-bein'  as  pore 
as  any  feller  thar,  an'  a-makin'  barns  an'  fences 
an'  ox-yokes  an'  sech  like ;  an'  not  a-bein'  able  to 
write  his  own  name — havin'  to  make  his  mark 
mebbe — when  he  started  out  to  save  the  world. 
An'  how  they  tuk  him  an'  nailed  him  onto  a 
cross  when  he'd  come  down  fer  nothin'  but  to 
save  'em;  an'  stuck  a  spear  big  as  a  corn-knife 
into  his  side,  an'  give  him  vinegar;  an'  his  own 
v  mammy  a-standin'  down  thar  on  the  ground  a- 
i  cryin'  an'  a-watchin'  him;  an'  he  a-fergivin'  all 
'  of  'em  then  an'  thar ! 

Thar  nuver  had  been  nothin'  like  that  afore 
on  Kingdom-Come,  an'  all  along  I  heerd  fellers 
a-layin'  thar  guns  down;  an'  when  the  preacher 
called  out  fer  sinners,  blame  me  ef  the  fust  fel 
ler  that  riz  wasn't  Mace  Day.  An'  Mace  says, 
"  Stranger,  'f  what  you  say  is  true,  I  reckon  the 
Lawd  '11  fergive  me  too,  but  I  don't  believe 
Daws  Dillon  ever  will,"  an'  Mace  stood  thar 
lookin'  around  fer  Daws.  An'  all  of  a  sudden 
the  preacher  got  up  straight  an'  called  out,  "  Is 
132 


PKEACHISP    ON   KIXGDOM-COME 

thar  a  human  in  this  house  mean  an'  sorry 
enough  to  stand  betwixt  a  man  an'  his  Maker  "  ? 
An'  right  thar,  stranger,  Daws  riz.  "  Naw,  by 
God,  thar  hain't !  "  Daws  says,  an'  he  walks  up 
to  Mace  a-holdin'  out  his  hand,  an'  they  all 
busts  out  cryin'  an'  shakin'  hands  —  Days  an' 
Dillons — jes  as  the  preacher  had  made  'em  do 
over  in  Hazlan.  An'  atter  the  thing  was  over, 
I  steps  up  to  the  preacher  an'  I  says : 

"  Brother,"  I  says,   "  you  spoke  a  parable, 
shore." 


133 


THE   PASSING   OF   ABRAHAM 
SHIVERS 

I  TELL  ye,  boys,  hit  hain't  often  a  feller 
has  the  chance  o'  doin'  so  much  good  jes 
by  dyin'.  Per  'f  Abe  Shivers  air  gone,  shorely 
gone,  the  rest  of  us — every  durn  one  of  us — air 
a-goin*  to  be  saved.  Fer  Abe  Shivers — you 
hain't  heerd  tell  o'  Abe?  Well,  you  must  be  a 
stranger  in  these  mountains  o'  Kaintuck,  shore. 

"  I  don't  know,  stranger,  as  Abe  ever  was 
borned;  nobody  in  these  mountains  knows  it  'f 
he  was.  The  fust  time  I  ever  heerd  tell  o'  Abe 
he  was  a-hollerin'  fer  his  rights  one  mawnin'  at 
daylight,  endurin'  the  war,  jes  outside  o'  ole 
Tom  Perkins'  door  on  Fryin'  Pan.  Abe  was 
left  thar  by  some  home-gyard,  I  reckon.  Well, 
nobody  air  ever  turned  out'n  doors  in  these 
mountains,  as  you  know,  an'  Abe  got  his  rights 
that  mawnin',  an*  he's  been  a-gittin*  'em  ever 
sence.  Tom  already  had  a  houseful,  but  'f  any 
feller  got  the  bigges'  hunk  o'  corn-bread,  that 
feller  was  Abe;  an'  ef  any  feller  got  a-whalin', 
hit  wasn't  Abe. 

"  Abe  tuk  to  lyin'  right  naturely — looked 
134 


THE    PASSING    OF    ABRAHAM    SHIVERS 

like — afore  he  could  talk.  Fact  is,  Abe  nuver 
could  do  nothin'  but  jes  whisper.  Still,  Abe 
could  manage  to  send  a  lie  furder  with  that  rat- 
tlin'  whisper  than  ole  Tom  could  with  that  big 
horn  o'  hisn  what  tells  the  boys  the  revenoos  air 
comin'  up  Fryin'  Pan. 

"  Didn't  take  Abe  long  to  git  to  braggin'  an' 
drinkin'  an'  naggin'  an'  hectorin' — everything, 
'mos',  'cept  fightin'.  Nobody  ever  drawed  Abe 
Shivers  into  a  fight.  I  don't  know  as  he  was 
afeerd;  looked  like  Abe  was  a-havin'  sech  a 
tarnation  good  time  with  his  devilmint  he  jes 
didn't  want  to  run  no  risk  o'  havin'  hit  stopped. 
An'  sech  devilmint !  Hit  ud  take  a  coon's  age, 
I  reckon,  to  tell  ye. 

"  The  boys  was  a-goin'  up  the  river  one  night 
to  git  ole  Dave  Hall  fer  trickin'  Rosie  Branham 
into  evil.  Some  feller  goes  ahead  an'  tells  ole 
Dave  they's  a-comin'.  Hit  was  Abe.  Some 
feller  finds  a  streak  o'  ore  on  ole  Tom  Perkins' 
land,  an'  racks  his  jinny  down  to  town,  an'  tells 
a  furriner  thar,  an'  Tom  comes  might'  ni~h 
sellin'  the  land  fer  nothin'.  Now  Tom  raised^ 
Abe,  but,  jes  the  same,  the  feller  was  Abe.  ^ 

"  One  night  somebody  guides  the  revenoos  in 
on  Hell  fer  Sartain,  an'  they  cuts  up  four  stills. 
Hit  was  Abe.  The  same  night,  mind  ye,  a  feller 
slips  in  among  the  revenoos  while  they's  asleep, 
and  cuts  off  their  bosses'  manes  an'  tails — muled 

135 


THE    PASSING    OF    ABEAHAM    SHIVEES 

every  durned  critter  uv  'em.  Stranger,  hit  was 
Abe.  An'  as  fer  women-folks — well,  Abe  was 
the  ill-favoredest  feller  I  ever  see,  an'  he  couldn't 
talk;  still,  Abe  was  sassy,  an'  you  know  how 
sass  counts  with  the  gals;  an'  Abe's  whisperin' 
come  in  jes  as  handy  as  any  feller's  settin'  up; 
so  'f  ever  you  seed  a  man  with  a  Winchester 
a-lookin'  fer  the  feller  who  had  cut  him  out, 
stranger,  he  was  a-lookin'  fer  Abe. 

"  Somebody  tells  Harve  Hall,  up  thar  at  a 
dance  on  Hell  fer  Sartain  one  Christmas  night, 
that  Rich  Harp  had  said  somep'n  agin  him  an' 
Nance  Osborn.  An'  somebody  tells  Rich  that 
Harve  had  said  somep'n  agin  Nance  an'  him. 
Hit  was  one  an'  the  same  feller,  stranger,  an' 
the  feller  was  Abe.  Well,  while  Rich  an'  Harve 
was  a-gittin'  well,  somebody  runs  off  with  Nance. 
Hit  was  Abe.  Then  Rich  an'  Harve  jes  draws 
straws  fer  a  feller.  Stranger,  they  drawed  fer 
Abe.  Hit's  purty  hard  to  believe  that  Abe  air 
gone,  'cept  that  Rich  Harp  an'  Harve  Hall 
don't  never  draw  no  straws  fer  nothin';  but  'f 
by  the  grace  o'  Goddlemighty  Abe  air  gone, 
why,  as  -I  was  a-sayin',  the  rest  of  us — every 
durned  one  of  us — air  a-goin'  to  be  saved,  shore. 
Fer  Abe's  gone  fust,  an'  ef  thar's  only  one  Jedg- 
ment  Day,  the  Lawd  '11  nuver  git  to  us." 


136 


A   PURPLE   RHODODENDRON 

THE  purple  rhododendron  is  rare.  Up  in 
the  Gap  here,  Bee  Rock,  hung  out  over 
Roaring  Rock,  blossoms  with  it — as  a  gray  cloud 
purples  with  the  sunrise.  This  rock  was  tossed 
lightly  on  edge  when  the  earth  was  young,  and 
stands  vertical.  To  get  the  flowers  you  climb 
the  mountain  to  one  side,  and,  balancing  on  the 
rock's  thin  edge,  slip  down  by  roots  and  past 
rattlesnake  dens  till  you  hang  out  over  the 
water  and  reach  for  them.  To  avoid  snakes  it 
is  best  to  go  when  it  is  cool,  at  daybreak. 

I  know  but  one  other  place  in  this  southwest 
corner  of  Virginia  where  there  is  another  bush 
of  purple  rhododendron,  and  one  bush  only  is 
there.  This  hangs  at  the  throat  of  a  peak  not 
far  away,  whose  ageless  gray  head  is  bent  over 
a  ravine  that  sinks  like  a  spear  thrust  into  the 
side  of  the  mountain.  Swept  only  by  high  wind 
and  eagle  wings  as  this  is,  I  yet  knew  one-man 
foolhardy  enough  to  climb  to  it  for  a  flower.  He 
brought  one  blossom  down:  and  to  this  day  I 
do  not  know  that  it  was  not  the  act  of  a  coward; 
yes,  though  Grayson  did  it,  actually  smiling  all 
the  way  from  peak  to  ravine,  and  though  he  was 
137 


A   PUEPLE    RHODODENDRON 

my  best  friend — best  loved  then  and  since.  I 
believe  he  was  the  strangest  man  I  have  ever 
known,  and  I  say  this  with  thought;  for  his  ec 
centricities  were  sincere.  In  all  he  did  I  cannot 
remember  having  even  suspected  anything  the 
atrical  but  once. 

We  were  all  Virginians  or  Kentuckians  at  the 
Gap,  and  Grayson  was  a  Virginian.  You  might 
have  guessed  that  he  was  a  Southerner  from  his 
voice  and  from  the  way  he  spoke  of  women — 
but  no  more.  Otherwise,  he  might  have  been  a 
Moor,  except  for  his  color,  which  was  about 
the  only  racial  characteristic  he  had.  He  had 
been  educated  abroad  and,  after  the  English 
habit,  had  travelled  everywhere.  And  yet  I  can 
imagine  no  more  lonely  way  between  the  eterni 
ties  than  the  path  Grayson  trod  alone. 

He  came  to  the  Gap  in  the  early  days,  and  just 
why  he  came  I  never  knew.  He  had  studied  the 
iron  question  a  long  time,  he  told  me,  and  what 
I  thought  reckless  speculation  was,  it  seems,  de 
liberate  judgment  to  him.  His  money  "  in  the 
dirt,"  as  the  phrase  was,  Grayson  got  him  a 
horse  and  rode  the  hills  and  waited.  He  was 
intimate  with  nobody.  Occasionally  he  would 
play  poker  with  us  and  sometimes  he  drank  a 
good  deal,  but  liquor  never  loosed  his  tongue. 
At  poker  his  face  told  as  little  as  the  back  of  his 
cards,  and  he  won  more  than  admiration — even 

138 


A   PUKPLE    RHODODENDRON 

from  the  Kentuckians,  who  are  artists  at  the 
game;  but  the  money  went  from  a  free  hand, 
and,  after  a  diversion  like  this,  he  was  apt  to 
be  moody  and  to  keep  more  to  himself  than  ever. 
Every  fortnight  or  two  he  would  disappear,  al 
ways  over  Sunday.  In  three  or  four  days  he  t 
would  turn  up  again,  black  with  brooding,  and  ' 
then  he  was  the  last  man  to  leave  the  card-table 
or  he  kept  away  from  it  altogether.  Where  he 
went  nobody  knew ;  and  he  was  not  the  man  any 
body  would  question. 

One  night  two  of  us  Kentuckians  were  sitting 
in  the  club,  and  from  a  home  paper  I  read  aloud 
the  rumored  engagement  of  a  girl  we  both  knew 
— who  was  famous  for  beauty  in  the  Bluegrass, 
as  was  her  mother  before  her  and  the  mother  be 
fore  her — to  an  unnamed  Virginian.  Grayson 
sat  near,  smoking  a  pipe;  and  when  I  read  the 
girl's  name  I  saw  him  take  the  meerschaum  from 
his  lips,  and  I  felt  his  eyes  on  me.  It  was  a 
mystery  how,  but  I  knew  at  once  that  Grayson 
was  the  man.  He  sought  me  out  after  that  and 
seemed  to  want  to  make  friends.  I  was  willing, 
or,  rather  he  made  me  more  than  willing;  for  he 
was  irresistible  to  me,  as  I  imagine  he  would 
have  been  to  anybody.  We  got  to  walking  to 
gether  and  riding  together  at  night,  and  we  were 
soon  rather  intimate ;  but  for  a  long  time  he  never 
so  much  as  spoke  the  girl's  name.  Indeed,  he 
139 


A   PURPLE    RHODODEKDROST 

kept  away  from  the  Bluegrass  for  nearly  two 
months;  but  when  he  did  go  he  stayed  a  fort 
night. 

This  time  he  came  for  me  as  soon  as  he  got 
back  to  the  Gap.  It  was  just  before  midnight, 
and  we  went  as  usual  back  of  Imboden  Hill, 
through  moon-dappled  beeches,  and  Grayson 
turned  off  into  the  woods  where  there  was  no 
path,  both  of  us  silent.  We  rode  through  trem 
ulous,  shining  leaves — Grayson's  horse  choosing 
a  way  for  himself — and,  threshing  through  a 
patch  of  high,  strong  weeds,  we  circled  past  an 
amphitheatre  of  deadened  trees  whose  crooked 
arms  were  tossed  out  into  the  moonlight,  and 
halted  on  the  spur.  The  moon  was  poised  over 
Morris's  farm ;  South  Fork  was  shining  under  us 
like  a  loop  of  gold,  the  mountains  lay  about  in 
tranquil  heaps,  and  the  moon-mist  rose  luminous 
between  them.  There  Grayson  turned  to  me 
with  an  eager  light  in  his  eyes  that  I  had  never 
seen  before. 

"  This  has  a  new  beauty  to-night!  "  he  said; 
and  then  "I  told  her  about  you,  and  she  said  that 
she  used  to  know  you — well."  I  was  glad  my 
face  was  in  shadow — I  could  hardly  keep  back 
a  brutal  laugh — and  Grayson,  unseeing,  went  on 
to  speak  of  her  as  I  had  never  heard  any  man 
speak  of  any  woman.  In  the  end,  he  said  that 
she  had  just  promised  to  be  his  wife.  I  answered 
140 


A    PURPLE    RHODODENDRON 

nothing.  Other  men,  I  knew,  had  said  that  witK 
the  same  right,  perhaps,  and  had  gone  from  her 
to  go  back  no  more.  And  I  was  one  of  them. 
Grayson  had  met  her  at  White  Sulphur  five  years 
before,  and  had  loved  her  ever  since.  She  had 
known  it  from  the  first,  he  said,  and  I  guessed 
then  what  was  going  to  happen  to  him.  I  mar 
velled,  listening  to  the  man,  for  it  was  the  star 
of  constancy  in  her  white  soul  that  was  most 
lustrous  to  him — and  while  I  wondered  the  mar 
vel  became  a  commonplace.  Did  not  every  lover 
think  his  loved  one  exempt  from  the  frailty  that 
names  other  women?  There  is  no. ideal  of  faith 
or  of  purity  that  does  not  live  in  countless  women 
to-day.  I  believe  that ;  but  could  I  not  recall  one 
friend  who  walked  with  Divinity  through  pine 
woods  for  one  immortal  spring,  and  who,  being 
sick  to  death,  was  quite  finished — learning  her 
at  last?  Did  I  not  know  lovers  who  believed 
sacred  to  themselves,  in  the  name  of  love,  lips 
that  had  been  given  to  many  another  without  it  ? 
And  now  did  I  not  know — but  I  knew  too  much, 
and  to  Grayson  I  said  nothing. 

That  spring  the  "  boom  "  came.  Grayson' s 
property  quadrupled  in  value  and  quadrupled 
again.  I  was  his  lawyer,  and  I  plead  with  him 
to  sell ;  but  Grayson  laughed.  He  was  not  spec 
ulating;  he  had  invested  on  judgment;  he  would 
sell  only  at  a  certain  figure.  The  figure  was 
141 


A   PURPLE   RHODODENDRON 

actually  reached,  and  Grayson  let  half  go.  The 
boom  fell,  and  Grayson  took  the  tumble  with  a 
jest.  It  would  come  again  in  the  autumn,  he  said, 
and  he  went  off  to  meet  the  girl  at  White  Sul 
phur. 

I  worked  right  hard  that  summer,  but  I  missed 
him,  and  I  surely  was  glad  when  he  came  back. 
Something  was  wrong ;  I  saw  it  at  once.  He  did 
not  mention  her  name,  and  for  a  while  he  avoided 
even  me.  I  sought  him  then,  and  gradually  I 
got  him  into  our  old  habit  of  walking  up  into  the 
Gap  and  of  sitting  out  after  supper  on  a  big  rock 
in  the  valley,  listening  to  the  run  of  the  river 
and  watching  the  afterglow  over  the  Cumber 
land,  the  moon  rise  over  Wallen's  Ridge  and  the 
stars  come  out.  Waiting  for  him  to  speak,  I 
learned  for  the  first  time  then  another  secret  of 
his  wretched  melancholy.  It  was  the  hopeless 
ness  of  that  time  perhaps,  that  disclosed  it. 
Grayson  had  lost  the  faith  of  his  childhood. 
Most  men  do  that  at  some  time  or  other,  but 
Grayson  had  no  business,  no  profession,  no  art 
in  which  to  find  relief.  Indeed,  there  was  but 
one  substitute  possible,  and  that  came  like  a  gift 
straight  from  the  God  whom  he  denied.  Love 
came,  and  Grayson's  ideals  of  love,  as  of  every 
thing  else,  were  morbid  and  quixotic.  He  be 
lieved  that  he  owed  it  to  the  woman  he  should 
marry  never  to  have  loved  another.  He  had 
142 


A    PUEPLE   KHODODENDKON 

loved  but  one  woman,  he  said,  and  he  should 
love  but  one.  I  believed  him  then  literally  when 
he  said  that  his  love  for  the  Kentucky  girl  was 
his  religion  now — the  only  anchor  left  him  in 
his  sea  of  troubles,  the  only  star  that  gave  him 
guiding  light.  Without  this  love,  what  then  ? 

I  had  a  strong  impulse  to  ask  him,  but  Grayson 
shivered,  as  though  he  divined  my  thought,  and, 
in  some  relentless  way,  our  talk  drifted  to  the 
question  of  suicide.  I  was  not  surprised  that  he 
rather  defended  it.  Neither  of  us  said  anything 
new,  only  I  did  not  like  the  way  he  talked.  He 
was  too  deliberate,  too  serious,  as  though  he  were 
really  facing  a  possible  fact.  He  had  no  relig 
ious  scruples,  he  said,  no  family  ties;  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  bringing  himself  into  life; 
why — if  it  was  not  worth  living,  not  bearable — 
why  should  he  not  end  it?  He  gave  the  usual 
authority,  and  I  gave  the  usual  answer.  Religion 
aside,  if  we  did  not  know  that  we  were  here  for 
some  purpose,  we  did  not  know  that  we  were  not; 
and  here  we  were  anyway,  and  our  duty  was 
plain.  Desertion  was  the  act  of  a  coward,  and 
that  Grayson  could  not  deny. 

That  autumn  the  crash  of  '91  came  across  the 
water  from  England,  and  Grayson  gave  up.  He 
went  to  Richmond,  and  came  back  with  money 
enough  to  pay  off  his  notes,  and  I  think  it  took 
nearly  all  he  had.  Still,  he  played  poker  steadily 
H3 


A   PT7RPLB    RHODODENDRON 

now — for  poker  had  been  resumed  when  it  was 
no  longer  possible  to  gamble  in  lots — he  drank 
a  good  deal,  and  he  began  just  at  this  time  to 
take  a  singular  interest  in  our  volunteer  police 
guard.  He  had  always  been  on  hand  when  there 
was  trouble,  and  I  shan't  soon  forget  him  the 
day  Senator  Mahone  spoke,  when  we  were 
\  punching  a  crowd  of  mountaineers  back  with 
cocked  Winchesters.  He  had  lost  his  hat  in  a 
struggle  with  one  giant;  he  looked  half  crazy 
with  anger,  and  yet  he  was  white  and  perfectly 
cool,  and  I  noticed  that  he  never  had  to  tell  a 
man  but  once  to  stand  back.  Now  he  was  the 
first  man  to  answer  a  police  whistle.  When  we 
were  guarding  Talt  Hall,  he  always  volunteered 
when  there  was  any  unusual  risk  to  run.  When 
we  raided  the  Pound  to  capture  a  gang  of  des 
peradoes,  he  insisted  on  going  ahead  as  spy;  and 
when  we  got  restless  lying  out  in  the  woods  wait 
ing  for  daybreak,  and  the  captain  suggested  a 
charge  on  the  cabin,  Grayson  was  by  his  side 
when  it  was  made.  Grayson  sprang  through  the 
door  first,  and  he  was  the  man  wrho  thrust  his 
reckless  head  up  into  the  loft  and  lighted  a  match 
to  see  if  the  murderers  were  there.  Most  of  us 
did  foolish  things  in  those  days  under  stress  of 
excitement,  but  Grayson,  I  saw,  was  weak  enough 
to  be  reckless.  His  trouble  with  the  girl,  what 
ever  it  was,  was  serious  enough  to  make  him  ap- 
144 


A    PUEPLE    KHODODENDROtf 

patently  care  little  whether  he  were  alive  or  dead. 
And  still  I  saw  that  not  yet  even  had  he  lost  hope. 
He  was  having  a  sore  fight  with  his  pride,  and 
he  got  body-worn  and  heart-sick  over  it.  Of 
course  he  was  worsted,  and  in  the  end,  from  sheer 
weakness,  he  went  back  to  her  once  more. 

I  shall  never  see  another  face  like  his  when 
Grayson  came  back  that  last  time.  I  never  no 
ticed  before  that  there  were  silver  hairs  about  his 
temples.  He  stayed  in  his  room,  and  had  his 
meals  sent  to  him.  He  came  out  only  to  ride, 
and  then  at  night.  Waking  the  third  morning 
at  daybreak,  I  saw  him  through  the  window  gal 
loping  past,  and  I  knew  he  had  spent  the  night 
on  Black  Mountain.  I  went  to  his  room  as  soon 
as  I  got  up,  and  Grayson  was  lying  across  his 
bed  with  his  face  down,  his  clothes  on,  and  in 
his  right  hand  was  a  revolver.  I  reeled  into  a 
chair  before  I  had  strength  enough  to  bend  over 
him,  and  when  I  did  I  found  him  asleep.  I  left 
him  as  he  was,  and  I  never  let  him  know  that  I 
had  been  to  his  room;  but  I  got  him  out  on  the 
rock  again  that  night,  and  I  turned  our  talk  again 
to  suicide.  I  said  it  was  small,  mean,  cowardly, 
criminal,  contemptible !  I  was  savagely  in  ear 
nest,  and  Grayson  shivered  and  said  not  a  word. 
I  thought  he  was  in  better  mind  after  that.  We 
got  to  taking  night  rides  again,  and  I  stayed 
as  closely  to  him  as  I  could,  for  times  got  worse 
145 


A   PURPLE    RHODODENDRON 

and  trouble  was  upon  everybody.  Notes  fell 
thicker  than  snowflakes,  and,  through  the  foolish 
policy  of  the  company,  foreclosures  had  to  be 
made.  Grayson  went  to  the  wall  like  the  rest 
of  us.  I  asked  him  what  he  had  done  with  the 
money  he  had  made.  He  had  given  away  a 
great  deal  to  poorer  kindred;  he  had  paid  his 
dead  father's  debts;  he  had  played  away  a 
good  deal,  and  he  had  lost  the  rest.  His  faith 
was  still  imperturbable.  He  had  a  dozen  rect 
angles  of  "  dirt,"  and  from  these,  he  said,  it 
would  all  come  back  some  day.  Still,  he  felt  the 
sudden  poverty  keenly,  but  he  faced  it  as  he  did 
any  other  physical  fact  in  life — dauntless.  He 
used  to  be  fond  of  saying  that  no  one  thing  could 
make  him  miserable.  But  he  would  talk  with 
mocking  earnestness  about  some  much-dreaded 
combination;  and  a  favorite  phrase  of  his — 
which  got  to  have  peculiar  significance — was 
"  the  cohorts  of  hell,"  who  closed  in  on  him  when 
he  was  sick  and  weak,  and  who  fell  back  when 
he  got  well.  He  had  one  strange  habit,  too, 
from  which  I  got  comfort.  He  would  deliber 
ately  walk  into  and  defy  any  temptation  that 
beset  him.  That  was  the  way  he  strengthened 
himself,  he  said.  I  knew  what  his  temptation 
was  now,  and  I  thought  of  this  habit  when  I 
found  him  asleep  with  his  revolver,  and  I  got 
hope  from  it  now,  when  the  dreaded  combination 
146 


A    PURPLE    RHODODENDRON 

(whatever  that  was)  seemed  actually  to  have 
come. 

I  could  see  now  that  he  got  worse  daily.  He 
stopped  his  mockeries,  his  occasional  fits  of  reck 
less  gayety.  He  stopped  poker — resolutely — 
he  couldn't  afford  to  lose  now;  and,  what  puz 
zled  me,  he  stopped  drinking.  The  man  simply 
looked  tired,  always  hopelessly  tired ;  and  I  could 
believe  him  sincere  in  all  his  foolish  talk  about 
his  blessed  Nirvana :  which  was  the  peace  he 
craved,  which  was  end  enough  for  him. 

Winter  broke.  May  drew  near;  and  one  af 
ternoon,  when  Grayson  and  I  took  our  walk  up 
through  the  Gap,  he  carried  along  a  huge  spy 
glass  of  mine,  which  had  belonged  to  a  famous 
old  desperado,  who  watched  his  enemies  with  it 
from  the  mountain-tops.  We  both  helped  cap 
ture  him,  and  I  defended  him.  He  was  sentenced 
to  hang — the  glass  was  my  fee.  We  sat  down 
opposite  Bee  Rock,  and  for  the  first  time  Grayson 
told  me  of  that  last  scene  with  her.  He  spoke 
without  bitterness,  and  he  told  me  what  she  said, 
word  for  word,  without  a  breath  of  blame  for 
her.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  judged  her  at  all; 
she  did  not  know — he  always  said;  she  did  not 
know;  and  then,  when  I  opened  my  lips,  Gray- 
son  reached  silently  for  my  wrist,  and  I  can  feel 
again  the  warning  crush  of  his  fingers,  and  I 
say  nothing  against  her  now. 

147 


A    PUKPLE    RHODODENDRON 

I  asked  Grayson  what  his  answer  was. 

"I  asked  her,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  if  she  had 
even  seen  a  purple  rhododendron." 

I  almost  laughed,  picturing  the  scene — the 
girl  bewildered  by  his  absurd  question — Grayson 
calm,  superbly  courteous.  It  was  a  mental  pe 
culiarity  of  his — this  irrelevancy — and  it  was  like 
him  to  end  a  matter  of  life  and  death  in  just  that 
way. 

"  I  told  her  I  should  send  her  one.  I  am 
waiting  for  them  to  come  out,"  he  added;  and 
he  lay  back  with  his  head  against  a  stone  and 
sighted  the  telescope  on  a  dizzy  point,  about 
which  buzzards  were  circling. 

'*  There  is  just  one  bush  of  rhododendron  up 
there,"  he  went  on.  "  I  saw  it  looking  down 
from  the  Point  last  spring.  I  imagine  it  must 
blossom  earlier  than  that  across  there  on  Bee 
Rock,  being  always  in  the  sun.  No,  it's  not  bud 
ding  yet,"  he  added,  with  his  eye  to  the  glass. 
"  You  see  that  ledge  just  to  the  left?  I  dropped 
a  big  rock  from  the  Point  square  on  a  rattler 
BJio  was  sunning  himself  there  last  spring.  I 
can  see  a  foothold  all  the  way  up  the  cliff.  It 
can  be  done,"  he  concluded,  in  a  tone  that  made 
me  turn  sharply  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  climb  up  there?  "  I 
asked,  harshly. 

"  If  it  blossoms  first  up  there — I'll  get  it  where 
148 


A   PUKPLE    KHODODENDKON" 

it  blooms  first. "  In  a  moment  I  was  angry  and 
half  sick  with  suspicion,  for  I  knew  his  obstinacy; 
and  then  began  what  I  am  half  ashamed  to  tell. 

Every  day  thereafter  Grayson  took  that  glass 
with  him,  and  I  went  along  to  humor  him.  I 
watched  Bee  Rock,  and  he  that  one  bush  at  the 
throat  of  the  peak — neither  of  us  talking  over 
the  matter  again.  It  was  uncanny,  that  rivalry 
— sun  and  wind  in  one  spot,  sun  and  wind  in  an 
other — Nature  herself  casting  the  fate  of  a  half- 
crazed  fool  with  a  flower.  It  was  utterly  absurd, 
but  I  got  nervous  over  it — apprehensive,  dismal. 

A  week  later  it  rained  for  two  days,  and  the 
water  was  high.  The  next  day  the  sun  shone, 
and  that  afternoon  Grayson  smiled,  looking 
through  the  glass,  and  handed  it  to  me.  I  knew 
what  I  should  see.  One  purple  cluster,  full 
blown,  was  shaking  in  the  wind.  Grayson  was 
leaning  back  in  a  dream  when  I  let  the  glass 
down.  A  cool  breath  from  the  woods  behind 
us  brought  the  odor  of  roots  and  of  black  earth; 
up  in  the  leaves  and  sunlight  somewhere  a  wood- 
thrush  was  singing,  and  I  saw  in  Grayson's  face 
what  I  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time,  and  that 
was  peace — the  peace  of  stubborn  purpose.  He 
did  not  come  for  me  the  next  day,  nor  the  next ; 
but  the  next  he  did,  earlier  than  usual. 

"  I  am  going  to  get  that  rhododendron/*  he 
said.  "  I  have  been  half-way  up — it  can  be 
149 


A   PURPLE    RHODODENDRON" 

reached.*1  So  had  I  been  half-way  up.  With 
nerve  and  agility  the  flower  could  be  got,  and 
both  these  Grayson  had.  If  he  had  wanted  to 
climb  up  there  and  drop,  he  could  have  done  it 
alone,  and  he  would  have  known  that  I  should 
have  found  him.  Grayson  was  testing  himself 
again,  and,  angry  with  him  for  the  absurdity  of 
the  thing  and  with  myself  for  humoring  it,  but 
still  not  sure  of  him,  I  picked  up  my  hat  and 
went.  I  swore  to  myself  silently  that  it  was  the 
last  time  I  should  pay  any  heed  to  his  whims. 
I  believed  this  would  be  the  last.  The  affair 
with  the  girl  was  over.  The  flower  sent,  I  knew 
Grayson  would  never  mention  her  name  again. 

Nature  was  radiant  that  afternoon.  The 
mountains  had  the  leafy  luxuriance  of  June,  and 
a  rich,  sunlit  haze  drowsed  on  them  between  the 
shadows  starting  out  over  the  valley  and  the 
clouds  so  white  that  the  blue  of  the  sky  looked 
dark.  Two  eagles  shot  across  the  mouth  of  the 
Gap  as  we  neared  it,  and  high  beyond  buzzards 
were  sailing  over  Grayson's  rhododendron. 

I  went  up  the  ravine  with  him  and  I  climbed 
up  behind  him — Grayson  going  very  deliberately 
and  whistling  softly.  He  called  down  to  me 
when  he  reached  the  shelf  that  looked  half-way. 

"  You  mustn't  come  any  farther  than  this,"  he 
said.  "  Get  out  on  that  rock  and  I'll  drop  them 
down  to  you." 

150 


A   PURPLE    RHODODENDRON 

Then  he  jumped  from  the  ledge  and  caught 
the  body  of  a  small  tree  close  to  the  roots,  and 
my  heart  sank  at  such  recklessness  and  all  my 
fears  rose  again.  I  scrambled  hastily  to  the 
ledge,  but  I  could  get  no  farther.  I  might  pos 
sibly  make  the  jump  he  had  made — but  how 
should  I  ever  get  back?  How  would  he?  I 
called  angrily  after  him  now,  and  he  wouldn't 
answer  me.  I  called  him  a  fool,  a  coward;  I 
stamped  the  ledge  like  a  child — but  Grayson 
kept  on,  foot  after  hand,  with  stealthy  caution, 
and  the  purple  cluster  nodding  down  at  him 
made  my  head  whirl.  I  had  to  lie  down  to  keep 
from  tumbling  from  the  ledge ;  and  there  on  my 
side,  gripping  a  pine  bush,  I  lay  looking  up  at 
him.  He  was  close  to  the  flowers  now,  and  just 
before  he  took  the  last  upward  step  he  turned 
and  looked  down  that  awful  height  with  as  calm 
a  face  as  though  he  could  have  dropped  and 
floated  unhurt  to  the  ravine  beneath. 

Then  with  his  left  hand  he  caught  the  ledge 
to  the  left,  strained  up,  and,  holding  thus, 
reached  out  with  his  right.  The  hand  closed 
about  the  cluster,  and  the  twig  was  broken. 
Grayson  gave  a  great  shout  then.  He  turned  his 
head  as  though  to  drop  them  and,  that  far  away, 
I  heard  the  sibilant  whir  of  rattles.  I  saw  a 
snake's  crest  within  a  yard  of  his  face,  and, 
my  God!  I  saw  Grayson  loose  his  left  hand  to 


A   PUKPLE    BHODODENDRON 

guard  it!  The  snake  struck  at  his  arm,  and 
Grayson  reeled  and  caught  back  once  at  the  ledge 
with  his  left  hand.  He  caught  once,  I  say,  to 
do  him  full  justice;  then,  without  a  word,  he 
dropped — and  I  swear  there  was  a  smile  on  his 
face  when  he  shot  down  past  me  into  the  trees. 

I  found  him  down  there  in  the  ravine  with 
nearly  every  bone  in  his  body  crushed.  His  left 
arm  was  under  him,  and  outstretched  in  his  right 
hand  was  the  shattered  cluster,  with  every  blos 
som  gone  but  one.  One  white  half  of  his  face 
was  unmarked,  and  on  it  was  still  the  shadow  of 
a  smile.  I  think  it  meant  more  than  that  Gray- 
son  believed  that  he  was  near  peace  at  last.  It 
meant  that  Fate  had  done  the  deed  for  him  and 
that  he  was  glad.  Whether  he  would  have  done 
it  himself,  I  do  not  know ;  and  that  is  why  I  say 
that  though  Grayson  brought  the  flower  down — 
smiling  from  peak  to  ravine — I  do  not  know  that 
he  was  not,  after  all,  a  coward. 

That  night  I  wrote  to  the  woman  in  Kentucky. 
I  told  her  that  Grayson  had  fallen  from  a  cliff 
while  climbing  for  flowers ;  and  that  he  was  dead. 
Along  with  these  words,  I  sent  a  purple  rhodo 
dendron. 


152 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE   POUND 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE   POUND 

THE  pale  lad  from  the  Pound  was  telling 
news  to  an  eager  circle  of  men  just  out 
side  the  open  window  of  the  little  mountain-hotel, 
and,  inside,  I  dropped  knife  and  fork  to  listen. 
The  wily  old  "  Daddy  "  of  the  Fleming  boys  had 
been  captured;  the  sons  were  being  hemmed  in 
that  very  day,  and  a  fight  between  sheriff's  posse 
and  outlaws  was  likely  any  hour. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  was  astride  a  gray  mule, 
and  with  an  absurd  little  .32  Smith  &  Wesson 
popgun  on  my  hip — the  only  weapon  I  could 
find  in  town — was  on  my  way  to  the  Pound. 

Our  volunteer  police-guard  down  at  "  The 
Gap,"  twenty  miles  away,  was  very  anxious  to 
capture  those  Fleming  boys.  Talton  Hall,  feud- 
leader  and  desperado,  had  already  been  hanged, 
and  so  had  his  bitter  enemy,  the  Red  Fox  of  the 
Mountains.  With  the  Fleming  outlaws  brought 
to  justice,  the  fight  of  the  guard  for  law  and 
order  was  about  won.  And  so,  as  I  was  a  mem 
ber  of  that  guard,  it  behooved  me  to  hurry — 
which  I  did. 

155 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

The  Gap  is  in  the  southwestern  corner  of  old 
Virginia,  and  is  a  ragged  gash  down  through  the 
Cumberland  Mountains  to  the  water  level  of  a 
swift  stream  that  there  runs  through  a  mountain 
of  limestone  and  between  beds  of  iron  ore  and 
beds  of  coking  coal.  That  is  why  some  three 
score  young  fellows  gathered  there  from  Blue- 
grass  Kentucky  and  Tide-water  Virginia  not 
many  years  ago,  to  dig  their  fortunes  out  of  the 
earth.  Nearly  all  were  college  graduates,  and 
all  were  high-spirited,  adventurous  and  well-born. 
They  proposed  to  build  a  town  and,  incidentally, 
to  make  cheaper  and  better  iron  there  than  was 
made  anywhere  else  on  the  discovered  earth. 

A  "  boom  "  came.  The  labor  and  capital  ques 
tion  was  solved  instantly,  for  every  man  in  town 
was  straightway  a  capitalist.  You  couldn't  get 
a  door  hung — every  carpenter  was  a  meteoric 
Napoleon  of  finance.  Every  young  blood  in 
town  rode  Blue-grass  saddle-horses  and  ate  eight- 
o'clock  dinners — making  many  dollars  each  day 
and  having  high  jinks  o'  nights  at  the  club,  which, 
if  you  please,  entertained,  besides  others  of  dis 
tinction,  a  duke  and  duchess  who  had  warily 
eluded  the  hospitality  of  New  York.  The  woods 
were  full  of  aristocrats  and  plutocrats — Ameri 
can  and  English.  The  world  itself  seemed  to 
be  moving  that  way,  and  the  Gap  stretched  its 
jaws  wide  with  a  grin  of  welcome.  Later,  you 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

could  get  a  door  hung,  but  here  I  draw  the  veil. 
It  was  magnificent,  but  it  was  not  business. 

At  the  high  tide,  even,  the  Gap  was,  however, 
something  of  a  hell-hole  for  several  reasons ;  and 
the  clash  of  contrasts  was  striking.  The  Ken 
tucky  feudsmen  would  chase  each  other  there, 
now  and  then,  from  over  Black  Mountain;  and 
the  toughs  on  the  Virginia  side  would  meet  there 
on  Saturdays  to  settle  little  differences  of  opinion 
and  sentiment.  They  would  quite  take  the  town 
sometimes — riding  through  the  streets,  yelling 
and  punctuating  the  sign  of  our  one  hotel  with 
pistol-bullet  periods  to  this  refrain : 

....  G.r.a.n.d    C.e.n.t.r.a.l    H.o.t.e.l.  .  .  .  ., 

Hell!      Hell!      Hell! 

— keeping  time  meanwhile,  like  darkies  in  a  hoe- 
down.  Or,  a  single  horseman  might  gallop  down 
one  of  our  wooden  sidewalks,  with  his  reins  be 
tween  his  teeth,  and  firing  into  the  ground  with  a 
revolver  in  each  hand.  All  that,  too,  was  mag 
nificent,  but  it  was  not  business.  The  people 
who  kept  store  would  have  to  close  up  and  take 
to  the  woods. 

And  thus  arose  a  unique  organization — a  vol 
unteer  police-guard  of  gentlemen,  who  carried 
pistol,  billy,  and  whistle,  and  did  a  policeman's 
157 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

work — hewing  always  strictly  to  the  line  of  the 
law. 

The  result  was  rather  extraordinary.  The 
Gap  soon  became  the  only  place  south  of  Mason 
and  Dixon's  line,  perhaps,  where  a  street  fight  of 
five  minutes'  duration,  or  a  lynching,  was  im 
possible.  A  yell,  a  pistol-shot,  or  the  sight  of  a 
drunken  man,  became  a  rare  occurrence.  Local 
lawlessness  thus  subdued,  the  guard  extended  its 
benign  influence — creating  in  time  a  public  senti 
ment  fearless  enough  to  convict  a  desperado, 
named  Talt  Hall ;  and,  guarding  him  from  rescue 
by  his  Kentucky  clansmen  for  one  month  at  the 
county-seat,  thus  made  possible  the  first  hanging 
that  mountain-region  had  ever  known. 

After  that  the  natives,  the  easy-going,  tolerant 
good  people,  caught  the  fever  for  law  and  order, 
for,  like  lawlessness,  law,  too,  is  contagious.  It 
was  they  who  guarded  the  Red  Fox,  Hall's 
enemy,  to  the  scarfold,  and  it  was  they  who 
had  now  taken  up  our  hunt  for  the  Red 
Fox's  accomplices — the  Fleming  outlaws  of  the 
Pound. 

We  were  anxious  to  get  those  boys — they  had 
evaded  and  mocked  us  so  long.  Usually  they 
lived  in  a  cave,  but  lately  they  had  grown  quite 
"  tame."  From  working  in  the  fields,  dressed 
in  women's  clothes,  they  got  to  staying  openly  at 
home  and  lounging  around  a  cross-roads  store  at 

158 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

the  Pound.  They  even  had  the  impudence  to 
vote  for  a  sheriff  and  a  county  judge.  They 
levied  on  their  neighbors  for  food  and  clothes, 
and  so  bullied  and  terrorized  the  Pound  that 
nobody  dared  to  deny  them  whatever  they  asked, 
or  dared  to  attempt  an  arrest.  At  last,  they  got 
three  or  four  recruits,  and  tying  red  strips  of 
flannel  to  their  shoulders  and  Winchesters, 
drilled  in  the  county  road,  mocking  our  drill  at 
the  county-seat  when  we  were  guarding  Talton 
Hall. 

This  taunt  was  a  little  too  much,  and  so 
we  climbed  on  horseback  late  one  afternoon, 
wrapped  our  guns  in  overcoats,  and  started  out 
for  an  all-night  ride,  only  to  be  turned  back 
again  at  the  foot  of  Black  Mountain  by  our 
captain  and  first  lieutenant,  who  had  gone  over 
ahead  of  us  as  spies.  The  outlaws  were  fighting 
among  themselves;  one  man  was  killed,  and  we 
must  wait  until  they  got  "  tane  "  again. 

A  few  weeks  later  the  guard  rode  over  again, 
dashed  into  the  Fleming  cabin  at  daybreak  and 
captured  a  houseful  of  screaming  women  and 
children — to  the  great  disgust  of  the  guard  and 
to  the  great  humor  of  the  mountaineers,  who  had 
heard  of  our  coming  and  gone  off,  dancing,  down 
the  road  only  an  hour  before.  It  was  then  that 
the  natives,  emulating  our  example,  took  up  the 
search.  They  were  doing  the  work  now,  and  it 
159 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

was  my  great  luck  to  be  the  only  member  of  the 
guard  who  knew  what  was  going  on. 

The  day  was  hot  the  road  dusty,  and  the  gray 
mule  was  slow.  Within  two  hours  I  was  at  the 
head  of  the  Pound — a  wild,  beautiful,  lawless 
region  that  harbored  the  desperadoes  of  Virginia 
and  Kentucky,  who  could  do  mischief  in  either 
State  and  step  to  refuge  across  the  line.  Far 
ahead,  I  could  see  a  green  dip  in  the  mountains 
where  the  Red  Fox  and  the  Fleming  boys  had 
shot  the  Mullins  family  of  moonshiners  to  death 
from  ambush  one  sunny  morning  in  May. 

Below,  sparkled  Pound  River  roaring  over  a 
milldam,  and  by  the  roadside,  as  I  went  down,  I 
found  the  old  miller  alone.  The  posse  of  natives 
had  run  upon  the  Flemings  that  morning,  he  said, 
and  the  outlaws,  after  a  sharp  fight,  had  escaped 
— wounded.  The  sheriff  was  in  charge  of  the 
searching  party,  and  he  believed  that  the  Flem 
ings  would  be  caught  now,  for  sure. 

"Which  way?"  I  asked. 

The  old  fellow  pointed  down  a  twisting,  sunlit 
ravine,  dense  with  woods,  and  I  rode  down  the 
dim  creek  that  twisted  through  it.  Half  an 
hour  later  I  struck  a  double  log-cabin  with  quilts 
hanging  in  its  windows — which  was  unusual. 
An  old  woman  appeared  in  the  doorway — a  tall, 
majestic  old  tigress,  with  head  thrown  back  and 
1 60 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

a  throat  so  big  that  it  looked  as  though  she  had 
a  goitre. 

"  Who  lives  here?" 

"  The  Flemingses  lives  hyeh,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

I  was  startled.  I  had  struck  the  outlaws'  cabin 
by  chance,  and  so,  to  see  what  I  might  learn,  I 
swung  from  the  gray  mule  and  asked  for  a  glass 
of  buttermilk.  A  handsome  girl  of  twenty,  a 
Fleming  sister,  with  her  dress  open  at  the  throat, 
stepped  from  the  door  and  started  to  the  spring- 
house.  Through  the  door  I  could  see  another 
woman — wife  of  one  of  the  outlaws — ill.  A 
"  base-born  "  child  toddled  toward  me,  and  a 
ten-year-old  boy — a  Fleming  brother — with  keen 
eyes  and  a  sullen  face,  lay  down  near  me — watch 
ing  me,  like  a  snake  in  the  grass. 

The  old  woman  brought  out  a  chair  and 
lighted  a  pipe. 

u  Whar  air  ye  from,  and  what  mought  yo* 
name  be?  " 

I  evaded  half  the  inquiry. 

"  I  come  from  the  Blue-grass,  but  I'm  living 
at  the  Gap  just  now."  She  looked  at  me  keenly, 
as  did  the  snake  in  the  grass,  and  I  turned  my 
chair  so  that  I  could  watch  that  boy. 

"  Was  you  over  hyeh  that  night  when  them 
fellows  from  the  Gap  run  in  on  us?  " 

"  No." 

161 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

The  old  woman's  big  throat  shook  with  quiet 
laughter.  The  girl  laughed  and  the  woman 
through  the  door  laughed  in  her  apron,  but  the 
boy's  face  moved  not  a  muscle.  It  was  plain  that 
we  had  no  monopoly  of  the  humor  of  that  day 
break  dash  into  a  house  full  of  women  and  chil 
dren. 

"  One  fool  feller  stuck  his  head  up  into  the 
loft  and  lit  a  match  to  see  if  my  boys  was  up 
thar.  Lit  a  match!  He  wouldn't  V  had  no 
head  ef  they  had  been."  She  laughed  again,  and 
drew  on  her  pipe. 

"  I  give  'em  coffee,"  she  went  on,  "  while  they 
waited  for  my  boys  to  come  back,  an'  all  I  axed 
'em  was  not  to  hurt  'em  if  they  could  help  it." 
Then  she  broached  the  point  at  issue  herself. 

"  I  s'pose  you've  heerd  about  the  fight  this 
mornin'  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  reckon  you  know  my  boys  is  hurt — mebbe 
they're  dead  in  the  woods  somewhar  now."  She 
spoke  with  little  sadness  and  with  no  animus 
whatever.  There  was  no  use  trying  to  conceal 
my  purpose  down  there — I  saw  that  at  once — 
and  I  got  up  to  leave.  She  would  not  let  me 
pay  for  the  buttermilk. 

"  Ef  you  git  hold  of  'em — I  wish  you  wouldn't 
harm  'em,"  she  said,  as  I  climbed  on  the  gray 
mule,  and  I  promised  her  that  if  they  were  caught 
162 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

unharmed,  no  further  harm  should  come  to  them ; 
and  I  rode  away,  the  group  sitting  motionless 
and  watching  me. 

For  two  hours  I  ambled  along  the  top  of  a 
spur,  on  a  pretty  shaded  road  with  precipitous 
woods  on  each  side,  and  now  and  then  an  occa 
sional  cabin,  but  not  a  human  being  was  in  sight 
— not  for  long.  Sometimes  I  would  see  a  figure 
flitting  around  a  corner  of  a  cabin;  sometimes 
a  door  would  open  a  few  inches  and  close  quickly ; 
and  I  knew  the  whole  region  was  terrorized. 
For  two  hours  I  rode  on  through  the  sunlight  and 
beauty  of  those  lonely  hills,  and  then  I  came  on 
a  crowd  of  mountaineers  all  armed  with  Win 
chesters,  and  just  emerging  from  a  cabin  by  the 
roadside.  It  was  one  division  of  the  searching 
party,  and  I  joined  them.  They  were  much 
amused  when  they  saw  the  Christmas  toy  with 
which  I  was  armed. 

"  S'pose  one  o'  the  Flemings  had  stepped  out'n 
the  bushes  an'  axed  ye  what  ye  was  doin7  down 
hyeh — what  would  ye  V  said?  " 

That  might  have  been  embarrassing,  and  I 
had  to  laugh.  I  really  had  not  thought  of  that. 

One  man  showed  me  the  Winchester  they  had 
captured — Heen-an's  gun.  Tied  to  the  meat- 
house  and  leaping  against  a  rope-tether  was  a 
dog — which,  too,  they  had  captured — Heenan's 
dog.  As  we  started  out  the  yard  "  Gooseneck  " 

163 


MAN-HUNTING    IN   THE    POUND 

John  Branham,  with  a  look  of  disgust  at  my 
pistol,  whipped  out  one  of  his  own — some  two 
feet  long — for  me  to  swing  on  my  other  hip. 
Another  fellow  critically  took  in  my  broad-brim 
straw  hat. 

"  Hell !  "  he  said.  "  That  won't  do.  They 
can  see  that  a  mile  through  the  woods.  I'll  get 
ye  a  hat."  And  he  went  back  into  the  cabin  and 
brought  out  a  faded  slouch-hat. 

"  That's  Heenan's  I  "  he  said.  That,  too,  they 
had  captured. 

And  so  I  wore  Heenan's  hat — looking  for 
Heenan. 

Half  a  mile  down  the  road  we  stepped  aside 
twenty  yards  into  the  bushes.  There  was  the 
cave  in  which  the  outlaws  had  lived.  There  were 
in  it  several  blankets,  a  little  bag  of  meal,  and 
some  bits  of  ham.  Right  by  the  side  of  the  road 
was  a  huge  pile  of  shavings,  where  the  two  out 
laws  had  whittled  away  many  a  sunny  hour. 
Half  an  hour  on,  down  a  deep  ravine  and  up  a 
long  slope,  and  we  were  on  a  woody  knoll  where 
the  fight  had  taken  place  that  morning.  The 
little  trees  looked  as  though  a  Catling  gun  had 
been  turned  loose  on  them. 

The  posse  had  found  out  where  the  Flemings 
were,  the  night  before,  by  capturing  the  old 
Fleming  mother  while  she  was  carrying  them  a 
164 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE    POUND 

bag  of  provisions.  As  they  lay  in  the  brush,  she 
had  come  along,  tossing  stones  into  the  bushes 
to  attract  the  attention  of  her  sons.  One  of  the 
men  had  clicked  the  slide  of  his  Winchester,  and 
the  poor  old  woman,  thinking  that  was  the  signal 
from  one  of  her  boys,  walked  toward  them,  and 
they  caught  her  and  kept  her  prisoner  all  night 
in  the  woods.  Under  her  apron,  they  found  the 
little  fellow  who  had  lain  like  a  snake  in  the 
grass  beside  me  back  at  the  cabin,  and,  during 
the  night,  he  had  slipped  away  and  escaped  and 
gone  back  to  the  county-seat,  twenty  miles  away, 
on  foot,  to  tell  his  father,  who  was  a  prisoner 
there,  what  was  taking  place  at  home. 

At  daybreak,  when  the  posse  was  closing  in  on 
the  Flemings,  the  old  woman  sprang  suddenly 
to  her  feet  and  shouted  shrilly :  "  Run  down  the 
holler,  boys;  run  down  the  holler!  " 

The  ways  of  rude  men,  naturally,  are  not 
gentle,  and  the  sheriff  sprang  out  and  caught  the 
old  woman  by  the  throat  and  choked  her  cries; 
and  they  led  her  to  the  rear — weeping  and  wring 
ing  her  hands. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  the  men  slipped  for 
ward  through  the  woods  and  mist,  they  came 
upon  the  Flemings  crouched  in  the  bushes,  and 
each  creeping  for  a  tree.  "  Gooseneck  "  John 
Branham — -so  called  because  of  the  length  of  his 
neck — Doc  Swindall  and  Ed  Hall  opened  fire. 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE    POUND 

For  twenty  minutes  those  two  Fleming  boys 
fought  twenty-two  men  fiercely. 

"  Just  looked  like  one  steady  flame  was  a- 
comin'  out  o'  each  man's  Winchester  all  the 
time,"  said  Branham,  pointing  to  two  bullet- 
pecked  trees  behind  which  the  outlaws  had  stood. 
"  I  was  behind  this  birch/'  laying  his  hand  on  a 
tree  as  big  as  his  thigh,  and  pointing  out  where 
the  Flemings  had  drilled  three  bullet-holes  in  it 
between  his  neck  and  his  waistband. 

"  I  seed  Jim  Hale  pokin'  his  gun  around 
this  hyeh  tree  and  pumpin'  it  off  inter  the 
ground,"  said  Hall,  "  an7  I  couldn't  shoot  for 
laughin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Swindall,  "  I  was  tryin'  to  git  in 
a  shot  from  the  oak  there,  and  something  struck 
me  and  knocked  me  out  in  the  bushes.  I  looked 
around,  and  damn  me  if  there  wasn't  seven  full- 
grown  men  behind  my  tree." 

It  had  evidently  been  quite  warm  for  a  while, 
until  Branham  caught  Heenan  in  the  shoulder 
with  a  load  of  buckshot.  Heenan's  hat  went  off, 
his  gun  dropped  to  his  feet ;  he  cried  simply : 

"  Oh you !  "    Then  he  ran. 

Cal  Fleming,  too,  ran  then,  and  the  posse  fired 
after  them.  The  dog,  curiously  enough,  lay 
where  he  had  lain  during  the  fight,  at  the  base 
of  Heenan's  tree — and  so  hat,  dog,  and  gun  were 
captured.  I  had  wondered  why  the  posse  had 
166 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE    POUND 

not  pursued  the  Flemings  after  wounding  them, 
and  I  began  to  understand.  They  were  so  elated 
at  having  been  in  a  fight  and  come  out  safe,  that 
they  stopped  to  cook  breakfast,  gather  memen 
tos,  and  talk  it  all  over. 

Ten  minutes  later  we  were  at  the  cabin,  where 
the  fugitives  had  stopped  to  get  some  coffee. 

"  They  was  pretty  badly  hurt,  I  reckon,'1 
said  the  woman  who  had  given  them  something 
to  eat. 

"  Heenan's  shoulder  was  all  shot  up,  an1  I 
reckon  I  could  git  my  hand  into  a  hole  in  Cal's 
back.  Cal  was  groanin'  a  good  deal,  an'  had  to 
lay  down  every  ten  yards." 

We  went  on  hurriedly,  and  in  an  hour  we 
struck  the  main  body  of  the  searching  party,  and 
as  soon  as  the  sheriff  saw  me,  he  came  running 
forward.  Now,  the  guard  at  the  Gap  had  such 
a  reputation  that  any  member  of  it  was  sup 
posed  to  be  past-master  in  the  conduct  of  such 
matters  as  were  now  pending.  He  immediately 
called  me  "  Captain,"  and  asked  me  to  take 
charge  of  the  party.  I  looked  round  at  them, 
and  I  politely  veered  from  the  honor.  Such  a 
tough-looking  gang  it  has  rarely  been  my  good 
luck  to  see,  and  I  had  little  doubt  that  many  of 
them  were  worse  than  the  Fleming  boys.  One 
tall  fellow  particularly  attracted  my  attention; 
he  was  fully  six  and  one-half  feet  high ;  he  was 


MAN-HUNTING   IN    THE    POUND 

very  slender,  and  his  legs  and  arms  were  the 
longest  I  have  ever  seen  swung  to  a  human  frame. 
He  had  sandy  hair,  red  eyes,  high  cheek-bones, 
and  on  each  cheek  was  a  diminutive  boil.  About 
his  waist  was  strapped  a  huge  revolver,  and  to 
the  butt  of  this  pistol  was  tied  a  big  black  bow- 
ribbon — tied  there,  no  doubt,  by  his  sweetheart, 
as  a  badge  of  death  or  destruction  to  his  enemies. 
He  looked  me  over  calmly. 

"  Hev  you  ever  searched  for  a  dead  man?  " 
he  asked  deeply. 

It  was  humiliating  to  have  to  confess  it  in  that 
crowd,  but  I  had  not — not  then. 

"  Well,  I  hev,"  he  said,  significantly. 

I  had  little  doubt,  and  for  one,  perhaps,  of  his 
own  killing. 

In  the  hollow  just  below  us  was  the  cabin  of 
Parson  Swindall — a  friend  of  the  Flemings.  The 
parson  thought  the  outlaws  dying  or  dead,  and 
he  knew  the  cave  to  which  they  must  have 
dragged  themselves  to  die.  If  I  got  permission 
from  the  old  Fleming  mother,  he  would  guide 
me,  he  said,  to  the  spot.  I  sent  back  a  messenger, 
promising  that  the  bodies  of  her  sons  should  not 
be  touched,  if  they  were  dead,  nor  should  they 
be  further  harmed  if  they  were  still  alive.  The 
fierce  old  woman's  answer  came  back  in  an 
hour. 

"  She'd  ruther  they  rotted  out  in  the  woods." 
168 


W- 

Jr\ 


lilllP1" 

'l^BiinMlii'"       '--.ii  i1 

"Hev  you  ever  searched  for  a  dead  man? 


MAN-HUNTING   IN    THE    POUND 

Next  morning  I  stretched  the  men  out  in  a 
long  line,  thirty  feet  apart,  and  we  started  on  the 
search.  I  had  taken  one  man  and  spent  the  night 
in  the  parson's  cabin  hoping  that,  if  only 
wounded,  the  Flemings  might  slip  in  for  some 
thing  to  eat;  but  I  had  a  sleepless,  useless  night. 
Indeed,  the  search  had  only  a  mild  interest  and 
no  excitement.  We  climbed  densely  thicketed 
hills,  searched  ravines,  rocks,  caves,  swam  the 
river  backward  and  forward,  tracking  suspicious 
footsteps  in  the  mud  and  through  the  woods. 
I  had  often  read  of  pioneer  woodcraft,  and  I 
learned,  during  these  three  days,  that  the  mar 
vellous  skill  of  it  still  survives  in  the  Southern 
mountains. 

It  was  dangerous  work;  dangerous  for  the 
man  who  should  run  upon  the  outlaws,  since 
these  would  be  lying  still  to  hear  anyone  approach 
them,  and  would  thus  "  have  the  drop  "  from 
ambush.  Once,  to  be  sure,  we  came  near  a 
tragedy.  At  one  parting  of  two  roads  several 
of  us  stopped  to  decide  which  road  we  should 
take.  At  that  moment  the  Fleming  boys  were 
lying  in  the  bushes  twenty  yards  away,  with  their 
Winchesters  cocked  and  levelled  at  us  over  a  log, 
and  only  waiting  for  us  to  turn  up  that  path  to 
open  fire.  As  I  was  told  afterward,  Heenan, 
very  naturally,  had  his  Winchester  pointed  on 
his  hat,  which,  at  that  moment,  was  on  my  head. 
169 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE    POUND 

By  a  lucky  chance  I  decided  to  take  the  other 
path.  Otherwise,  I  should  hardly  be  writing 
these  lines  to-day. 

For  three  days  we  searched,  only  to  learn,  or 
rather  to  be  told,  which  was  not  the  truth,  that, 
in  women's  dress,  the  Flemings  had  escaped  over 
into  Kentucky.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  lay  two 
weeks  in  a  cave,  Cal  flat  on  his  back  and  letting 
the  water  from  the  roof  of  the  cave  drip,  hour 
by  hour,  on  a  frightful  wound  in  his  breast. 

For  several  months  they  went  uncaptured, 
until  finally  three  of  the  men  who  were  with  me, 
"  Gooseneck  "  John  Branham,  Ed  Hall,  and  Doc 
Swindall,  located  them  over  the  border  in  West 
Virginia.  Of  course  a  big  reward  was  offered 
for  each,  or  they  were  "  rewarded, "  as  the  moun 
taineers  say.  The  three  men  closed  in  on  them 
in  a  little  store  one  morning.  Cal  Fleming  was 
reading  a  letter  when  the  three  surged  in  at  the 
door,  and  Hall,  catching  Cal  by  the  lapel  of  his 
coat,  said  quietly : 

"  You  are  my  prisoner." 

Cal  sprang  back  to  break  the  hold,  and  Hall 
shot  him  through  the  breast,  killing  him  outright. 
Heenan,  who  was  not  thought  to  be  dangerous, 
sprang  at  the  same  instant  ten  feet  away,  and  his 
first  shot  caught  Hall  in  the  back  of  the  head, 
dropping  the  officer  to  his  knees.  Thinking  he 
170 


MAN-HUNTING   IN   THE   POUND 

had  done  for  Hall,  Heenan  turned  on  Branham 
and  Swindall,  and  shot  Branham  through  both 
lungs  and  Swindall  through  the  neck — dropping 
both  to  the  floor.  This  left  the  duel  between 
Hall  on  his  knees  and  Heenan.  At  last  a  lucky 
shot  from  Hall's  pistol  struck  Heenan's  pistol 
hand,  lacerating  the  fingers  and  making  him 
drop  his  weapon.  Heenan  ran  into  the  back 
room  then,  and,  finding  no  egress,  reappeared  in 
the  doorway,  with  his  bloody  hands  above  his 
head. 

"  Well,  Ed,"  he  said,  simply,  "  I  can't  do  no 


more." 


Six  months  later  Heenan  Fleming  was  brought 
back  to  the  county-seat  to  be  tried  for  his  life, 
and  I  felt  sure  that  he  would  meet  his  end  on 
the  scaffold  where  Talton  Hall  and  Red  Fox  had 
suffered  death. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  prisoner's  box,  his  face 
pale  and  flecked  with  powder,  I  could  see  a 
sunken  spot  in  his  jaw,  through  which  one  of 
Hall's  bullets  had  gone,  and  his  bright,  black 
eyes  gleamed  fire.  I  stepped  up  to  him.  I 
thought  there  was  no  chance  of  his  escaping  the 
gallows;  but,  if  he  did  escape,  I  wanted  to  be  as 
friendly  with  him  as  possible. 

"  Heenan,"  I  said,  "  did  you  ever  get  your  hat 
back?" 

171 


MAN-HUNTING    IN    THE    POUND 

"No,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  if  you  come  clear,  go  up  to  the  store 
and  get  the  best  hat  in  the  house,  and  have  it 
charged  to  me." 

Heenan  smiled. 

Now,  by  a  curious  chance,  the  woman  on 
whose  testimony  the  Red  Fox  had  been  hanged, 
had  died  meanwhile.  Some  people  said  she  had 
been  purposely  put  out  of  the  way  to  avoid  fur 
ther  testimony.  At  any  rate,  through  her  death, 
Heenan  did  come  clear,  and  the  last  time  I  saw 
him,  he  was  riding  out  of  the  town  on  a  mule, 
with  his  baby  in  front  of  him  and  on  his  head  a 
brand-new  derby  hat — mine. 


172 


DOWN   THE   KENTUCKY   ON 
A  RAFT 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY   ON 
A   RAFT 

THE  heart  of  the  Blue-grass  in  the  middle 
of  a  sunny  afternoon.     An  hour  thence, 
through  a  rolling  sweep  of  greening  earth  and 
woodland,  through  the  low,  poor  hills  of  the 
brush  country  and  into  the  oasis  of  Indian  Old 
Fields,  rich  in  level  meadow-lands  and  wheat- 
fields.     In  the  good  old  days  of  the  war-whoop 
and  the  scalping-knife,  the  savage  had  there  one 
of  the  only  two  villages  that  he  ever  planted 
in  the   "  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground."     There 
Daniel  Boone  camped  one  night  and  a  pioneer 
read  him  "  Gulliver's  Travels/'  and  the  great 
Daniel  called  the  little  stream  at  their  feet  Lulli- 
bigrub — which  name  it  bears  to-day.     Another 
hour  between  cliffs  and  pointed  peaks  and  cas 
tled  rocky  summits,  and  through  laurel  and  rho 
dodendron  to  the  Three  Forks  of  the  Kentucky. 
Up  the  Middle  Fork  then  and  at  dusk  the  end  of 
the  railroad  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains  and 
Jackson — the  county-seat  of  "  Bloody  Breath- 
itt  " — once  the  seat  of  a  lively  feud  and  still  the 
possible  seat  of  another,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
175 


DOWN    THE    KENTUCKY    ON    A   EAFT 

with  a  manual  training-school  and  a  branch  of  a 
Blue-grass  college,  it  is  also  the  seat  of  learning 
and  culture  for  the  region  drained  by  Cutshin, 
Hell-fer-Sartain,  Kingdom  Come,  and  other  lit 
tle  streams  of  a  nomenclature  not  less  pictur 
esque.  Even  Hell-fer-Sartain  is  looking  up.  A 
pious  lady  has  established  a  Sunday-school  on 
Hell-fer-Sartain.  A  humorous  bookseller  has  of 
fered  to  give  it  a  library  on  the  condition  that  he 
be  allowed  to  design  a  book-plate  for  the  vol 
umes.  And  the  Sunday-school  is  officially  known 
as  the  "  Hell-fer-Sartain  Sunday-school.'*  From 
all  these  small  tributaries  of  the  Kentucky,  the 
mountaineer  floats  logs  down  the  river  to  the  cap 
ital  in  the  Blue-grass.  Not  many  years  ago  that 
was  his  chief  reason  and  his  only  one  for  going 
to  the  Blue-grass,  and  down  the  Kentucky  on  a 
raft  was  the  best  way  for  him  to  get  there.  He 
got  back  on  foot.  But,  coming  or  going,  by 
steam,  water,  horseback,  or  afoot,  the  trip  is  well 
worth  while. 

At  Jackson  a  man  with  a  lantern  put  me  in  a 
"  hack/7  drove  me  aboard  a  flat  boat,  ferried  me 
over  with  a  rope  cable,  cracked  his  whip,  and  we 
went  up  a  steep,  muddy  bank  into  the  town.  All 
through  the  Cumberland  valleys,  nowadays, 
little  "  boom  "  towns  with  electric  lights,  water 
works,  and  a  street-railway  make  one  think  of  the 
man  who  said  "  give  him  the  luxuries  of  life  and 

176 


DOWN    THE    KENTUCKY    ON    A   RAFT 

he  would  do  without  the  necessaries."  I  did  not 
know  that  Jackson  had  ever  had  a  boom,  but  I 
thought  so  when  I  saw  between  the  flapping  cur 
tains  of  the  "  hack  "  what  seemed  to  be  a  white 
sidewalk  of  solid  cement. 

"  Hello,"  I  said,  "  is  that  a  sidewalk?  "  The 
driver  grunted,  quickly : 

"  Hit's  the  side  you  walk  on !  " 

A  wheel  of  the  hack  went  down  to  the  hub  in 
mud  just  then  and  I  felt  the  force  of  his  humor 
better  next  morning — I  was  to  get  such  humor 
in  plenty  on  the  trip — when  I  went  back  to  the 
river  that  same  way.  It  was  not  a  sidewalk  of 
cement  but  a  whitewashed  board  fence  that  had 
looked  level  in  the  dark,  and  except  along  a 
muddy  foot-wide  path  close  to  the  fence,  passing 
there,  for  anything  short  of  a  stork  on  stilts, 
looked  dangerous.  I  have  known  mules  to. 
drown  in  a  mountain  mud-hole.  / 

The  "  tide,"  as  the  mountaineer  calls  a  flood, 
had  come  the  day  before  and,  as  I  feared,  the 
rafts  were  gone.  Many  of  them  had  passed  in 
the  night,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
give  chase.  So  I  got  a  row-boat  and  a  mountain 
eer,  and,  taking  turns  at  the  oars,  we  sped  down 
the  swift  yellow  water  at  the  clipping  rate  of  ten 
miles  an  hour. 

As  early  as  the  late  days  of  August  the  moun 
taineer  goes  "  logging  "  in  order  to  cut  the  trees 
177 


DOWN    THE    KENTUCKY    ON    A   RAFT 

before  the  sap  rises,  so  that  the  logs  can  dry  bet 
ter  all  winter  and  float  better  in  the  spring.  Be 
fore  frost  comes,  on  river-bank,  hill-side,  and 
mountain-top,  the  cool  morning  air  is  resonant 
with  the  ring  of  axes,  the  singing  whistle  of  big 
saws,  the  crash  of  giant  poplar  and  oak  and 
chestnut  down  through  the  lesser  growth  under 
them,  and  the  low  boom  that  echoes  through  the 
woods  when  the  big  trees  strike  the  earth.  All 
winter  this  goes  on.  With  the  hammer  of  the 
woodpecker  in  the  early  spring,  you  hear  the  cries 
of  ox-drivers  "snaking"  the  logs  down  the 
mountain-side  to  the  edge  of  some  steep  cliff, 
where  they  are  tumbled  pell-mell  straight  down 
to  the  bank  of  the  river,  or  the  bank  of  some  little 
creek  that  runs  into  it.  It  takes  eight  yoke  of 
oxen,  sometimes,  to  drag  the  heart  of  a  monarch 
to  the  chute,  and  there  the  logs  are  "  rafted  " — 
as  the  mountaineer  calls  the  work;  that  is,  they 
are  rolled  with  hand-spikes  into  the  water  and 
lashed  side  by  side  with  split  saplings — length 
wise  in  the  broad  Big  Sandy,  broadside  in  the 
narrow  Kentucky.  Every  third  or  fourth  log  is  a 
poplar,  because  that  wood  is  buoyant  and  will 
help  float  the  chestnut  and  the  oak.  At  bow 
and  stern,  a  huge  long  limber  oar  is  rigged  on  a 
turning  stile,  the  raft  is  anchored  to  a  tree  with 
a  cable  of  rope  or  grapevine,  and  there  is  a 
patient  wait  for  a  "  tide."  Some  day  in  March 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY   ON   A   RAFT 

or  April — sometimes  not  until  May — mist  and 
clouds  loose  the  rain  in  torrents,  the  neighbors 
gather,  the  cable  is  slipped,  and  the  raft  swings 
out  the  mouth  of  the  creek  on  its  long  way  to 
the  land  of  which,  to  this  day,  the  average  moun 
taineer  knows  hardly  less  than  that  land  knows 
of  him. 

Steadily  that  morning  we  kept  the  clumsy  row- 
boat  sweeping  around  green-buttressed  points 
and  long  bends  of  the  river,  between  high  verti 
cal  cliffs  overspread  with  vines  and  streaked  white 
with  waterfalls,  through  boiling  eddies  and  long, 
swift,  waving  riffles,  in  an  exhilaration  that  seems 
to  come  to  running  blood  and  straining  muscles 
only  in  lonely  wilds.  Once  a  boy  shied  a  stone 
down  at  us  from  the  point  of  a  cliff  hundreds  of 
feet  sheer  overhead. 

"  I  wish  I  had  my  44,"  said  the  mountaineer, 
looking  wistfully  upward. 

"  You  wouldn't  shoot  at  him?  " 

"  I'd  skeer  him  a  leetle,  I  reckon,"  he  said, 
dryly,  and  then  he  told  me  stories  of  older  and 
fiercer  days  when  each  man  carried  a  "  gun," 
and  often  had  to  use  it  to  secure  a  landing  on 
dark  nights  when  the  loggers  had  to  tie  up  to  the 
bank.  When  the  moon  shines,  the  rafts  keep 
going  night  and  day. 

"  When  the  river's  purty  swift,  you  know,  it's 
hard  to  stop  a  raft.  I've  seen  a  raft  slash  down 
179 


DOWN    THE    KENTUCKY    ON    A   RAFT 

through  the  bushes  for  two  miles  before  a  fellow 
could  git  a  rope  around  a  tree.  So  sometimes  we 
had  to  ketch  hold  of  another  feller's  raft  that 
was  already  tied  up,  and,  as  there  was  danger  o* 
pullin'  his  loose,  the  feller' d  try  to  keep  us  off. 
That's  whar  the  44*8  come  in.  And  they  do  it 
yit,"  he  said,  as,  later,  I  learned  for  myself. 

Here  and  there  were  logs  and  splintered  sap 
lings  thrown  out  on  the  bank  of  the  river — signs 
of  wreckage  where  a  raft  had  "  bowed";  that 
is,  the  bow  had  struck  the  bank  at  the  bend  of 
the  river,  the  stern  had  swung  around  to  the 
other  shore,  and  the  raft  had  hunched  up  in  the 
middle  like  a  bucking  horse.  Standing  upright, 
the  mountaineer  can  ride  a  single  log  down  a 
swift  stream,  even  when  his  weight  sinks  it  a 
foot  or  two  under  the  surface,  but  he  finds  it  hard 
and  dangerous  to  stay  aboard  a  raft  when  it 
"  bows." 

"  I  was  bringin'  a  raft  out  o'  Leatherwood 
Creek  below  heah  " — only  that  was  not  the  name 
he  gave  the  creek — "  and  we  bowed  just  before 
we  got  to  the  river.  Thar  was  a  kind  of  a  idgit 
on  board  who  was  just  a-ridin'  down  the  creek 
fer  fun,  and  when  I  was  throwed  out  in  the 
woods  I  seed  him  go  up  in  the  air  and  come  down 
kerflop  in  the  water.  He  went  under  the  raft, 
and  crawled  out  about  two  hundred  yards  down 
the  river.  We  axed  him  to  git  on  agin,  but  that 
180 


DOWN    THE    KENTUCKY    ON    A   RAFT 

idgit  showed  more  sense  than  I  knowed  he  had. 
He  said  he'd  heerd  o'  hell  and  high  water,  and 
he'd  been  under  one  and  mighty  close  to  t'other, 
and  he  reckoned  he'd  stay  whar  he  was." 

It  was  getting  toward  noon  now.  We  had 
made  full  forty  miles,  and  Leatherwood  was  the 
next  stream  below. 

"  We  mought  ketch  a  raft  thar,"  said  the 
mountaineer;  and  we  did.  Sweeping  around  the 
bend  I  saw  a  raft  two  hundred  feet  long  at  the 
mouth  of  the  creek — tugging  at  its  anchor — and 
a  young  giant  of  a  mountaineer  pushing  the  bow- 
oar  to  and  fro  through  the  water  to  test  its  sup 
pleness.  He  had  a  smile  of  pure  delight  on  his 
bearded,  winning  face  when  we  shot  the  row- 
boat  alongside. 

"  I  tell  you,  Jim,"  he  said,  "  hit's  a  sweet- 
pullin'  oar." 

"  It  shorely  is,  Tom,"  said  Jim.  "  Heah's  a 
furriner  that  wants  to  go  down  the  river  with  ye." 

"All  right,"  said  the  giant,  hospitably. 
'  We're  goin'  just  as  soon  as  we  can  git  off." 

On  the  bank  was  a  group  of  men,  women,  and 
children  gathered  to  watch  the  departure.  In  a 
basin  of  the  creek  above,  men  up  to  their  waists 
in  water  were  "  rafting  "  logs.  Higher  above 
was  a  chute,  and  down  it  rolled  more  logs,  jump 
ing  from  end  to  end,  like  jackstraws.  Higher, 
I  could  hear  the  hammer  of  a  wood-pecker; 
181 


DOWN    THE   KENTUCKY    ON    A   EAFT 

higher  still,  the  fluting  of  a  wood-thrush,  and 
still  higher,  an  ox-driver's  sharp  cry.  The 
vivid  hues  of  dress  and  shawl  on  the  bank 
seemed  to  strike  out  sharply  every  color-note  in 
the  green  wall  behind  them,  straight  up  to  the 
mountain-top.  It  was  as  primitive  and  simple 
as  Arcady. 

Down  the  bank  came  old  Ben  Sanders,  as  I 
learned  later,  shouting  his  gdod-bys,  without 
looking  behind  him  as  he  slipped  down  the  bank. 
Close  after  him,  his  son,  young  Ben,  with  a  huge 
pqne  of  corn-bread  three  feet  square.  The  boy 
was  so  trembling  with  excitement  over  his  first 
trip  that  he  came  near  dropping  it.  Then  a 
mountaineer  with  lank,  long  hair,  the  scholar  of 
the  party,  and  Tim,  guilty  of  humor  but  once  on 
the  trip  —  solemn  Tim.  Two  others  jumped 
aboard  with  bacon  and  coffee — passengers  like 
myself.  Tom  stood  on  shore  with  one  hand  on 
the  cable,  while  he  said  something  now  and  then 
to  a  girl  in  crimson  homespun  who  stood  near, 
looking  downward.  Now  and  then  one  of  the 
other  women  would  look  at  the  two  and  laugh. 

"  All  right  now,  Tom,"  shouted  old  Ben,  "  let 
her  loose !  " 

Tom  thrust  out  his  hand,  which  the  girl  took 
shyly. 

"  Don't  fergit,  Tom,"  she  said.  Tom  laughed 
— there  was  little  danger  that  Tom  would  forget 
182 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   EAFT 

— and  with  one  twist  of  his  sinewy  hands  he 
threw  the  loop  of  the  grapevine  clear  of  the 
tree  and,  for  all  his  great  bulk,  sprang  like  a 
cat  aboard  the  raft,  which  shot  forward  with 
such  lightness  that  I  was  nearly  thrown  from 
my  feet. 

"Good-by,  Ben!" 

"Good-by,  Molly!" 

"  So  long,  boys !  " 

"  Don't  you  fergit  that  caliker,  now,  Ben." 

"  I  won't." 

"  Tom,"  called  a  mountaineer,  "  ef  you  git 
drunk  an'  spend  yo'  money,  Nance  heah  says  she 
won't  marry  ye  when  you  come  back."  Nance 
slapped  at  the  fellow,  and  the  giant  smiled. 
Then  one  piping  voice : 

"  Don't  fergit  my  terbacky,  Ben." 

"  All  right,  Granny — I  won't,"  answered  old 
Ben,  and,  as  we  neared  the  bend  of  the  river,  he 
cried  back : 

"  Take  that  saddle  home  I  borrowed  o'  Joe 
Thomas,  an'  don't  fergit  to  send  that  side  of 
bacon  to  Mandy  Longnecker,  an' — an' — "  and 
then  I  got  a  last  glimpse  of  the  women  shading 
their  patient  eyes  to  watch  the  lessening  figures 
on  the  raft  and  the  creaking  oars  flashing  white 
in  the  sunlight;  and  I  thought  of  them  going 
back  to  their  lonely  little  cabins  on  this  creek  to 
await  the  home-coming  of  the  men.  If  the 

183 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   EAFT 

mountain-women  have  any  curiosity  about  that 
distant  land,  the  Blue-grass  "  settlemints,"  they 
never  show  it.  I  have  never  known  a  mountain- 
woman  to  go  down  the  river  on  a  raft.  Perhaps 
they  don't  care  to  go;  perhaps  it  is  not  proper, 
for  their  ideas  of  propriety  are  very  strict;  per 
haps  the  long  trip  back  on  foot  deterred  them  so 
long  that  the  habit  of  not  going  is  too  strong  to 
overcome.  And  then  if  they  did  go,  who  would 
tend  the  ever-present  baby  in  arms,  the  ever-nu 
merous  children ;  make  the  garden  and  weed  and 
hoe  the  young  corn  for  the  absent  lord  and  mas 
ter.  I  suppose  it  was  generations  of  just  such 
lonely  women,  waiting  at  their  cabins  in  pioneer 
days  for  the  men  to  come  home,  that  gives  the 
mountain-woman  the  brooding  look  of  pathos 
that  so  touches  the  stranger's  heart  to-day ;  and  it 
is  the  watching  to-day  that  will  keep  unchanged 
that  look  of  vacant  sadness  for  generations  to 
come. 

"  Ease  her  up  now !  "  called  old  Ben — we 
were  making  our  first  turn — and  big  Tom  at  the 
bow,  and  young  Ben  and  the  scholar  at  the  stern 
oar,  swept  the  white  saplings  through  the  water 
with  a  terrific  swish.  Footholes  had  been  cut 
along  the  logs,  and  in  these  the  men  stuck  their 
toes  as  they  pushed,  with  both  hands  on  the  oar 
and  the  oar  across  their  breasts.  At  the  end  of 
the  stroke,  they  threw  the  oar  down  and  up  with 
184 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   BAFT 

rhythm  and  dash.     Then  they  went  back  on  a 
run  to  begin  another  stroke. 

"  Ease  her  up — ease  her  up,"  said  old  Ben, 
soothingly,  and  then,  suddenly: 

"  Hit  her  up— hit  her  up— hell!  " 

Solemn  Tim  began  to  look  ashore  for  a  good 
place  to  jump.  The  bow  barely  slipped  past 
the  bend  of  the  river. 

"That  won't  do,"  said  old  Ben  again; 
"  Hell!  "  Big  Tom  looked  as  crestfallen  as  a 
school-boy,  and  said  nothing — we  had  just  es 
caped  "  bowing  "  on  our  first  turn.  Ten  min 
utes  later  we  swept  into  the  Narrows — the  / 
"  Nahrers  "  as  the  mountaineer  says;  and  it  was  f 
quick  and  dangerous  work  keeping  the  unwieldy 
craft  from  striking  a  bowlder,  or  the  solid  wall 
of  a  vertical  cliff  that  on  either  side  rose  straight 
upward,  for  the  river  was  pressed  into  a  narrow 
channel,  and  ran  with  terrific  force.  It  was 
one  long  exhilarating  thrill  going  through  those 
Narrows,  and  everybody  looked  relieved  when 
we  slipped  out  of  them  into  broad  water,  which 
ran  straight  for  half  a  mile — where  the  oars 
were  left  motionless  and  the  men  got  back  their 
breath  and  drew  their  pipes  and  bottles.  I 
knew  the  innocent  white  liquor  that  revenue  man 
and  mountaineer  call  "  moonshine,"  and  a  wary 
sip  or  two  was  enough  for  me.  Along  with  the 
bottle  came  the  inevitable  first  question  that, 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   EAFT 

under  any  and  all  circumstances,  every  moun 
taineer  asks  the  stranger,  no  matter  if  the 
stranger  has  asked  him  a  question  first. 

"  Well,  stranger,  what  mought  yo'  name 
be?" 

Answering  that,  you  are  expected  to  tell  in 
the  same  breath,  as  well,  what  your  business  is. 
I  knew  it  was  useless  to  tell  mine — it  would 
not  have  been  understood,  and  would  have  en 
gendered  suspicion.  I  was  at  Jackson;  I  had 
long  wanted  to  go  down  the  river  on  a  raft,  and 
I  let  them  think  that  I  was  going  for  curiosity 
and  fun;  but  I  am  quite  sure  they  were  not 
wholly  satisfied  until  I  had  given  them  ground 
to  believe  that  I  could  afford  the  trip  for  fun, 
by  taking  them  up  to  the  hotel  that  night  for 
supper,  and  giving  them  some  very  bad  cigars. 
For,  though  the  moon  was  full,  the  sky  was 
black  with  clouds,  and  old  Ben  said  we  must  tie 
up  for  the  night.  That  tying  up  was  exciting 
work.  The  raft  was  worked  cautiously  toward 
the  shore,  and  a  man  stood  at  bow  and  stern 
with  a  rope,  waiting  his  chance  to  jump  ashore 
and  coil  it  about  a  tree.  Tom  jumped  first,  and 
I  never  realized  what  the  momentum  of  the  raft 
was  until  I  saw  him,  as  he  threw  the  rope  about  a 
tree,  jerked  like  a  straw  into  the  bushes,  the  rope 
torn  from  his  hands,  and  heard  the  raft  crashing 
down  through  the  undergrowth.  Tom  gave 
186 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   RAFT 

chase  along  the  bank,  and  everybody  yelled  and 
ran  to  and  fro.  It  was  crash — swish — bump — 
grind  and  crash  again;  and  it  was  only  by  the 
hardest  work  at  the  clumsy  oars  that  we  kept 
the  raft  off  the  shore.  From  a  rock  Tom  made 
a  flying  leap  aboard  again,  and  luckily  the  river 
broadened  there,  and  just  past  the  point  of  a 
thicket  we  came  upon  another  raft  already 
anchored.  The  boy  Ben  picked  up  his  rope 
and  prepared  to  leap  aboard  the  stranger, 
from  the  other  end  of  which  a  mountaineer  ran 
toward  us. 

"  Keep  off,"  he  shouted,  "  keep  off,  I  tell  ye," 
but  the  boy  paid  no  attention,  and  the  other 
man  pulled  his  pistol.'  Ben  dropped  his  rope, 
then  looked  around,  laughed,  picked  up  his  rope 
again  and  jumped  aboard.  The  fellow  lowered 
his  pistol  and  swore.  I  looked  around,  too, 
then.  Every  man  on  board  with  us  had  his  pis 
tol  in  his  hand.  We  tugged  the  stranger's  cable 
sorely,  but  it  held  him  fast  and  he  held  us  fast, 
and  the  tying  up  was  done. 

"  He'd  'a*  done  us  the  same  way,1'  said  old 
Ben,  in  palliation. 

Next  day  it  was  easy  sailing  most  of  the  time, 
and  we  had  long  rests  from  the  oars,  and  we 
smoked,  and  the  bottles  were  slowly  emptied,  one 
by  one,  while  the  mountaineers  "  jollied  "  each 
other  and  told  drawling  stories.  Once  we  struck 

is? 


DOWN   THE   KENTUCKY    ON   A    RAFT 

a  long  eddy,  and  were  caught  by  it  and  swept 
back  up-stream;  twice  this  happened  before  we 
could  get  in  the  current  again.  Then  they  all 
laughed  and  "  jollied  "  old  Ben. 

It  seemed  that  the  old  fellow  had  taken  too 
much  one  dark  night  and  had  refused  to  tie  up. 
There  was  a  house  at  the  head  of  this  eddy,  and 
when  he  struck  it  there  was  a  gray  horse  hitched 
to  the  fence  outside;  and  inside  was  the  sound 
of  fiddles  and  furious  dancing.  Next  morn 
ing  old  Ben  told  another  raftsman  that  he  had 
seen  more  gray  horses  and  heard  more  fiddling 
that  night  than  he  had  seen  and  heard  since  he 
was  born. 

4  They  was  a-fiddlin'  an'  a-dancin'  at  every 
house  I  passed  last  night,"  he  said,  "  an  I'm 
damned  if  I  didn't  see  a  gray  hoss  hitched  out 
side  every  time  I  heerd  the  fiddlin'.  I  reckon 
they  was  ha'nts."  The  old  fellow  laughed 
good-naturedly  while  the  scholar  was  telling  his 
story.  He  had  been  caught  in  the  eddy  and 
had  been  swung  around  and  around,  passing 
the  same  house  and  the  same  horse  each  time. 

I  believe  I  have  remarked  that  those  bottles 
were  emptying  fast.  By  noon  they  were  quite 
empty,  and  two  hours  later,  as  we  rounded  a 
curve,  the  scholar  went  to  the  bow,  put  his 
hands  to  his  mouth  and  shouted: 

"Whis-kee!" 

188 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   BAFT 

And  again : 

"  Whiss-kee-ee  I  " 

A  girl  sprang  from  the  porch  of  a  cabin  far 
down  the  stream,  and  a  moment  later  a  canoe 
was  pushed  from  the  bushes,  and  the  girl, 
standing  erect,  paddled  it  up-stream  close  to  the 
bank  and  shot  it  out  alongside  the  raft. 

"Howdye,  Mandy!" 

"Howdye,  boys!" 

Young  Ben  took  two  bottles  from  her,  gave 
her  some  pieces  of  silver,  and,  as  we  sped  on, 
she  turned  shoreward  again  and  stood  holding 
the  bushes  and  looking  after  us,  watching  young 
Ben,  as  he  was  watching  her;  for  she  was  black- 
eyed  and  pretty. 

The  sky  was  broken  with  hardly  a  single 
cloud  that  night.  The  moon  was  yellow  as  a 
flame,  and  we  ran  all  night  long.  I  lay  with 
my  feet  to  the  fire  that  Ben  had  built  on  some 
stones  in  the  middle  of  the  raft,  looking  up  at 
the  trees  that  arched  over  us,  and  the  steep, 
moonlit  cliffs,  and  the  moon  itself  riding  high 
and  full  and  so  brilliant  that  the  stars  seemed 
to  have  fallen  in  a  shower  all  around  the  hori 
zon.  The  raft  ran  as  noiselessly  as  a  lily-pad, 
and  it  was  all  as  still  and  wild  as  a  dream. 
Once  or  twice  we  heard  the  yelp  of  a  fox-hound 
and  the  yell  of  a  hunter  out  in  the  hills,  and  the 
mountaineers  yelled  back  in  answer  and  hied  the 
189 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   BAFT 

dog  on.  Sometimes  young  Ben  and  the  scholar, 
and  even  solemn  Tim,  sang  some  weird  old 
ballad  that  one  can  hear  now  only  in  the  South 
ern  hills;  and  twice,  to  my  delight  and  surprise, 
the  scholar  "  yodelled."  I  wondered  where  he 
had  learned  how.  He  did  not  know — he  had 
always  known  how.  It  was  perhaps  only  an 
other  of  the  curious  Old  World  survivals  that 
are  of  ceaseless  interest  to  a  speculative  "  fur- 
riner,"  and  was  no  stranger  than  the  songs  he 
sang.  I  went  to  sleep  by  and  by,  and  woke  up 
shivering.  It  was  yet  dark,  but  signs  of  day 
were  evident;  and  in  the  dim  light  I  could  see 
young  Ben  at  the  stern-oar  on  watch,  and  the 
huge  shape  of  big  Tom  standing  like  a  statile 
at  the  bow  and  peering  ahead.  We  had  made 
good  time  during  the  night — the  mountaineers 
say  a  raft  makes  better  time  during  the  night — 
why,  I  could  not  see,  nor  could  they  explain, 
and  at  daybreak  we  were  sweeping  around  the 
hills  of  the  brush  country,  and  the  scholar  who 
had  pointed  out  things  of  interest  (he  was  a 
school-teacher  at  home)  began  to  show  his  parts 
with  some  pride.  Every  rock  and  cliff  and  turn 
and  eddy  down  that  long  river  has  some  pictur 
esque  name  that  the  river-men  have  given  it — 
names  known  only  to  them.  Two  rocks  that 
shoved  their  black  shoulders  up  on  either  side 
of  the  stream  have  been  called  Buck  and  Billy, 
190 


DOWN   THE   KENTUCKY    ON   A   RAFT 

after  some  old  fellow's  favorite  oxen,  for  more 
than  half  a  century.  Here  was  an  eagle's  nest. 
A  bear  had  been  seen  not  long  ago,  looking 
from  a  black  hole  in  the  face  of  a  cliff.  How 
he  got  there  no  one  could  understand.  The 
scholar  told  some  strong  stories — now  that  we 
were  in  a  region  of  historical  interest — where 
Boone  planted  his  first  fort  and  where  Boones- 
borough  once  stood,  but  he  always  prefaced  his 
tale  with  the  overwhelming  authority  that: 

"Hist'ry  says!" 

He  declared  that  history  said  that  a  bull,  see 
ing  some  cows  across  the  river,  had  jumped 
from  the  point  of  a  high  cliff  straight  down  into 
the  river;  had  swum  across  and  fallen  dead  as 
he  was  climbing  the  bank. 

"  He  busted  his  heart,"  said  the  scholar. 

Oddly  enough,  solemn  Tim,  who  had  never 
cracked  a  smile,  was  the  first  to  rebel. 

"You  see  that  cliff  yander? "  said  the 
scholar.  "  Well,  hist'ry  says  that  Dan'l  Boone 
druv  three  Injuns  once  straight  over  that  cliff 
down  into  the  river." 

I  could  see  that  Tim  was  loath  to  cast  dis 
credit  on  the  facts  of  history.  If  the  scholar 
had  said  one  or  even  two  Indians,  I  don't  think 
Tim  would  have  called  a  halt;  but  for  Daniel, 
with  only  one  load  in  his  gun — and  it  not  a 
Winchester — to  drive  three — it  was  too  much. 
191 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A    RAFT 

And  yet  Tim  never  smiled,  and  it  was  the 
first  time  I  heard  him  voluntarily  open  his 
lips. 

"  Well,  hist'ry  mought  'a*  said  that,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  reckon  Dan' I  was  in  the  lead!  "  The 
yell  that  went  up  routed  the  scholar  and  stilled 
him.  History  said  no  farther  down  that 
stream,  even  when  we  were  passing  between 
the  majestic  cliffs  that  in  one  place  are  spanned 
by  the  third  highest  bridge  in  the  world.  There 
a  ferry  was  crossing  the  river,  and  old  Ben 
grew  reminiscential.  He  had  been  a  ferryman 
back  in  the  mountains. 

"  Thar  was  a  slosh  of  ice  runnin'  in  the 
river/'  he  said,  "  an'  a  feller  come  a-lopin'  down 
the  road  one  day,  an*  hollered  an'  axed  me 
to  take  him  across.  I  knowed  from  his  voice 
that  he  was  a-drinkin',  and  I  hollered  back  an* 
axed  him  if  he  was  drunk. 

44  *  Yes,  I'm  drunk!' 

"  '  How  drunk?  '  I  says. 

44  4  Drunk  as  hell !  '  he  says,  4  but  I  can  ride 
that  boat.' 

44  Well,  there  was  a  awful  slosh  o'  ice  a-run- 
n!nf,  but  I  let  him  on,  an'  we  hadn't  got  more'n 
ten  feet  from  the  bank  when  that  feller  fell  off 
in  that  slosh  o'  ice.  Well,  I  ketched  him  by 
one  foot,  an'  I  drug  him  an'  I  drug  him  an'  I 
drug  his  face  about  twenty  feet  in  the  mud,  an' 
192 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   EAFT 

do  you  know  that  damn  fool  come  might1  nigh 
a-drownin'  before  I  could  change  eends!  " 

Thence  on,  the  trip  was  monotonous  except 
for  the  Kentuckian  who  loves  every  blade  of 
grass  in  his  land — for  we  struck  locks  and  dams 
and  smooth  and  slower  water,  and  the  hills  were 
low  but  high  enough  to  shut  off  the  blue-grass 
fields.  But  we  knew  they  were  there — slope 
and  woodland,  bursting  into  green — and  the  trip 
from  highland  to  lowland,  barren  hillside  to 
rich  pasture-land — from  rhododendron  to  blue- 
grass — was  done. 

At  dusk  that  day  we  ran  slowly  into  the  little 
Kentucky  capital,  past  distilleries  and  brick  fac 
tories  with  tall  smoking  stacks  and  under  the 
big  bridge  and,  wonder  of  wonders  to  Ben,  past 
a  little  stern-wheel  steamboat  wheezing  up 
stream.  We  climbed  the  bank  into  the  town, 
where  the  boy  Ben  and  solemn  Tim  were  for 
walking  single  file  in  the  middle  of  the  streets 
until  called  by  the  scholar  to  the  sidewalk.  The 
boy's  eyes  grew  big  with  wonder  when  he  saw 
streets  and  houses  of  stone,  and  heard  the 
whistles  of  factories  and  saw  what  was  to  him 
a  crush  of  people  in  the  sleepy  little  town.  I 
parted  from  them  that  night,  but  next  morn 
ing  I  saw  big  Tom  passing  the  station  on  foot. 
He  said  his  companions  had  taken  his  things 
and  gone  on  by  train,  and  that  he  was  going 
193 


DOWN   THE    KENTUCKY    ON   A   RAFT 

to  walk  back.  I  wondered,  and  while  I  asked 
no  questions,  I  should  like  to  wager  that  I 
guessed  the  truth.  Tom  had  spent  every  cent 
of  his  money  for  the  girl  in  crimson  homespun 
who  was  waiting  for  him  away  back  in  the  hills, 
and  if  I  read  her  face  aright  I  could  have  told 
him  that  she  would  have  given  every  trinket  he 
had  sent  her  rather  than  wait  a  day  longer  for 
the  sight  of  his  face.  We  shook  hands,  and  I 
watched  him  pass  out  of  sight  with  his  face 
set  homeward  across  and  beyond  the  blue- 
grass,  through  the  brush  country  and  the 
Indian  Old  Fields,  back  to  his  hills  of  laurel 
and  rhododendron. 


194 


THROUGH   THE   BAD   BEND 


THROUGH   THE   BAD   BEND 

A  WILDLY  beautiful  cleft  through  the 
Cumberland  Range  opens  into  the  head 
of  Powell's  Valley,  in  Virginia,  and  forms  iihe 
Gap.  From  this  point  a  party  of  us  were  go 
ing  bass-fishing  on  a  fork  of  the  Cumberland 
River  over  in  the  Kentucky  mountains.  It  was 
Sunday,  and  several  Kentucky  mountaineers 
had  crossed  over  that  day  to  take  their  first  ride 
on  the  cars,  and  to  see  "  the  city  " — as  the  Gap 
has  been  prophetically  called  ever  since  it  had 
a  cross-roads  store,  one  little  hotel,  two  farm 
houses,  and  a  blacksmith's  shop.  From  them  , 
we  learned  that  we  could  ride  down  Powell's  ( 
Valley  and  get  to  the  fork  of  the  Cumberland 
by  simply  climbing  over  the  mountain.  As  the 
mountaineers  were  going  back  home  the  same 
day,  Breck  and  I  boarded  the  train  with  them, 
intending  to  fish  down  the  fork  of  the  river  to 
the  point  where  the  rest  of  the  party  would 
strike  the  same  stream,  two  days  later. 

At  the  second  station  down  the  road  a  crowd 
of  Virginia  mountaineers  got  on  board.     Most 
of  them  had  been  drinking,  and  the  festivities 
197 


THROUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

soon  began.  One  drunken  young  giant  pulled 
his  revolver,  swung  it  back  over  his  shoulder — 
the  muzzle  almost  grazing  a  woman's  face  be 
hind  him — and  swung  it  up  again  to  send  a 
bullet  crashing  through  the  top  of  the  car.  The 
hammer  was  at  the  turning-point  when  a  com 
panion  caught  his  wrist.  At  the  same  time,  the 
fellow's  sister  sprang  across  the  aisle,  and, 
wrenching  the  weapon  from  his  grasp,  hid  it 
in  her  dress.  Simultaneously  his  partner  at  the 
other  end  of  the  car  was  drawing  a  .45  Colt's fc 
half  as  long  as  his  arm.  A  quick  panic  ran 
through  the  car,  and  in  a  moment  there  was  no 
one  in  it  with  us  but  the  mountaineers,  the  con 
ductor,  one  brakeman,  and  one  other  man,  who 
sat  still  in  his  seat,  with  one  hand  under  his 
coat.  The  prospect  was  neither  pleasant  nor 
peaceful,  and  we  rose  to  our  feet  and  waited. 
The  disarmed  giant  was  raging  through  the 
aisle  searching  and  calling,  with  mighty  oaths, 
for  his  pistol.  The  other  had  backed  into  a 
corner  of  the  car,  waving  his  revolver,  turning 
his  head  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  a  surprise 
in  the  rear,  white  with  rage,  and  just  drunk 
enough  to  shoot.  The  little  conductor  was  un 
moved  and  smiling,  and,  by  some  quiet  mesmer 
ism,  he  kept  the  two  in  subjection  until  the  sta 
tion  was  reached. 

The  train  moved  out  and  left  us  among  the 
198 


THROUGH   THE    BAD   BEND 

drunken  maniacs,  no  house  in  sight,  the  darkness 
settling  on  us,  and  the  unclimbed  mountain 
looming  up  into  it.  The  belligerents  paid  no 
attention  to  us,  however,  but  disappeared  quick 
ly,  with  an  occasional  pistol-shot  and  a  yell  from 
the  bushes,  each  time  sounding  farther  away. 
The  Kentucky  mountaineers  were  going  to  climb 
the  mountain.  A  storm  was  coming,  but  there 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  So  we  shouldered  our 
traps  and  followed  them. 

There  were  eight  of  us — an  old  man  and 
his  two  daughters,  the  husband  of  one  of  these, 
the  sweetheart  of  the  other,  and  a  third  man, 
who  showed  suspicion  of  us  from  the  beginning. 
This  man  with  a  flaring  torch  led  the  way;  the 
old  man  followed  him,  and  there  were  two 
mountaineers  deep  between  the  girls  and  us,  who 
went  last. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  ragged  line  of  fire 
cut  through  the  blackness  overhead,  and  the 
thunder  began  to  crash  and  the  rain  to  fall. 
The  torch  was  beaten  out,  and  for  a  moment 
there  was  a  halt.  Breck  and  I  could  hear  a 
muffled  argument  going  on  in  the  air  above  us, 
and,  climbing  toward  the  voices,  we  felt  the  lin 
tel  of  a  mountain-cabin  and  heard  a  long  drawl 
of  welcome. 

The  cabin  was  one  dark  room  without  even 
a  loft,  the  home  of  a  newly  married  pair.  They 
199 


THROUGH   THE   BAD   BEND 

themselves  had  evidently  just  gotten  home,  for 
the  hostess  was  on  her  knees  at  the  big  fireplace, 
blowing  a  few  coals  into  a  blaze.  The  rest 
of  us  sat  on  the  two  beds  in  the  room  waiting 
for  the  fire-light,  and  somebody  began  talking 
about  the  trouble  on  the  train. 

"  Did  you  see  that  feller  settin'  thar  with  his 
hand  under  his  coat  while  Jim  was  tryin'  to 
shoot  the  brakeman?"  said  one.  u  Well,  Jim 
killed  his  brother  a  year  ago,  an'  the  feller  was 
jus'  waitin'  fer  a  chance  to  git  Jim  right  then. 
I  knowed  that." 

"  Who  was  the  big  fellow  who  started  the 
row,  by  flourishing  his  pistol  around?  "  I  asked. 

A  man  on  the  next  bed  leaned  forward  and 
laughed  slightly.  :t  Well,  stranger,  I  reckon 
that  was  me." 

This  sounds  like  the  opening  chapter  of  a 
piece  of  fiction,  but  we  had  really  stumbled  upon 
\  this  man's  cabin  in  the  dark,  and  he  was  our 
host.  A  little  spinal  chill  made  me  shiver.  He 
had  not  seen  us  yet,  and  I  began  to  wonder 
whether  he  would  recognize  us  when  the  light 
blazed  up,  and  whether  he  would  know  that  we 
were  ready  to  take  part  against  him  in  the  car, 
and  what  would  happen,  if  he  did.  When  the 
blaze  did  kindle,  he  was  reaching  for  his  hip, 
but  he  drew  out  a  bottle  of  apple-jack  and 
handed  it  over  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
200 


THEOUGH   THE    BAD   BEND 

"  Somebody  ought  to  V  knocked  my  head 
off/'  he  said. 

"  That's  so,"  said  the  younger  girl,  with 
sharp  boldness.  "  I  never  seed  sech  doin's." 

The  old  mountaineer,  her  father,  gave  her 
a  quick  rebuke,  but  the  man  laughed.  He  was 
sobering  up,  and,  apparently,  he  had  never  seen 
us  before.  The  young  wife  prepared  supper, 
and  we  ate  and  went  to  bed — the  ten  of  us  in 
that  one  room.  The  two  girls  took  off  their 
shoes  and  stockings  with  frank  innocence,  and 
warmed  their  bare  feet  at  the  fire.  The  host 
and  hostess  gave  up  their  bed  to  the  old  moun 
taineer  and  his  son-in-law,  and  slept,  like  the 
rest  of  us,  on  the  floor. 

We  were  wakened  long  before  day.  Indeed 
it  was  pitch  dark  when,  after  a  mountain  cus 
tom,  we  stumbled  to  a  little  brook  close  to  the 
cabin  and  washed  our  faces.  A  wood-thrush 
was  singing  somewhere  in  the  darkness,  and  its 
cool  notes  had  the  liquid  freshness  of  the  morn 
ing.  We  did  not  wait  for  breakfast,  so  anxious 
were  the  Kentuckians  to  get  home,  or  so  fearful 
were  they  of  abusing  their  host's  hospitality, 
though  the  latter  urged  us  strenuously  to  stay. 
Not  a  cent  would  he  take  from  anybody,  and 
I  know  now  that  he  was  a  moonshiner,  a  feuds- 
man,  an  outlaw,  and  that  he  was  running  from 
the  sheriff  at  that  very  time. 
201 


THEOUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

With  a  parting  pull  at  the  apple-jack,  we  be 
gan,  on  an  empty  stomach,  that  weary  climb. 
Not  far  up  the  mountain  Breck  stopped,  pant 
ing,  while  the  mountaineers  were  swinging  on 
up  the  path  without  an  effort,  even  the  girls; 
but  Breck  swore  that  he  had  heart  disease,  and 
must  rest.  When  I  took  part  of  his  pack,  the 
pretty  one  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  and 
smiled  at  him  without  scorn.  Both  were  shy, 
and  had  not  spoken  a  dozen  words  with  either 
of  us.  Half-way  up  we  overtook  a  man  and 
a  boy,  one  carrying  a  tremendous  demijohn 
and  the  other  a  small  hand-barrel.  They  had 
been  over  on  the  Virginia  side  selling  moon 
shine,  and  I  saw  the  light  of  gladness  in  Breck's 
eye,  for  his  own  flask  was  wellnigh  empty  from 
returning  our  late  host's  courtesy.  But  both 
man  and  boy  disappeared  with  a  magical  sud 
denness  that  became  significant  later.  Already 
we  were  suspected  as  being  revenue  spies,  though 
neither  of  us  dreamed  what  the  matter  was. 

We  reached  the  top  after  daybreak,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  sunrise  over  still  seas  of  white 
mist  and  wave  after  wave  of  blue  Virginia  hills 
was  unspeakable,  as  was  the  beauty  of  the  de 
scent  on  the  Kentucky  side,  down  through  pri 
meval  woods  of  majestic  oak  and  poplar,  under 
a  trembling  world  of  dew-drenched  leaves,  and 
along  a  tumbling  series  of  waterfalls  that  flashed 
202 


THROUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

through  tall  ferns,  blossoming  laurel,  and  shin 
ing  leaves  of  rhododendron. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  high  when  we  reached 
the  foot  of  the  mountain.  There  the  old  man 
and  the  young  girl  stopped  at  a  little  cabin 
where  lived  the  son-in-law.  We,  too,  were 
pressed  to  stop,  but  we  went  on  with  the  suspi 
cious  one  to  his  house,  where  we  got  breakfast. 
There  the  people  took  pay,  for  their  house  was 
weather-boarded,  and  they  were  more  civilized; 
or  perhaps  for  the  reason  that  the  man  thought 
us  spies.  I  did  not  like  his  manner,  and  I  got 
the  first  unmistakable  hint  of  his  suspicions  after 
breakfast.  I  was  down  behind  the  barn,  and 
he  and  another  mountaineer  came  down  on  the 
other  side. 

"  Didn't  one  o'  them  fellers  come  down  this 
way?  "  I  heard  him  ask. 

I  started  to  make  my  presence  known,  but  he 
spoke  too  quickly,  and  I  concluded  it  was  best  to 
keep  still. 

"  No  tellin'  whut  them  damn  fellers  is  up  to. 
I  don't  like  their  occupation." 

That  is,  we  were  the  first  fishermen  to  cast  a 
minnow  with  a  reel  into  those  waters,  and  it  was 
beyond  the  mountaineer's  comprehension  to  un 
derstand  how  two  men  could  afford  to  come 
so  far  and  spend  time  and  a  little  money  just 
for  the  fv  of  fishing.  They  supposed  we  were 
203 


THKOUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

fishing  for  profit,  and  later  they  asked  us  how 
we  kept  our  fish  fresh,  and  how  we  got  them 
over  the  mountain,  and  where  we  sold  them. 
With  this  idea,  naturally  it  was  a  puzzle  to 
them  how  we  could  afford  to  give  a  boy  a  quar 
ter  for  a  dozen  minnows,  and  then,  perhaps, 
catch  not  a  single  fish  with  them. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  Breck  was  rig 
ging  his  rod,  with  a  crowd  of  spectators  around 
him.  Such  a  rod  and  such  a  fisherman  had 
never  been  seen  in  that  country  before.  Breck 
was  dressed  in  a  white  tennis-shirt,  blue  gym 
nasium  breeches,  blue  stockings,  and  white  ten 
nis-shoes.  With  a  cap  on  his  shock  of  black 
hair  and  a  .38  revolver  in  his  belt,  he  was  a 
thing  for  those  women  to  look  at  and  to  admire, 
and  for  the  men  to  scorn — secretly,  of  course, 
for  there  was  a  look  in  his  black  eyes  that 
forced  guarded  respect  in  any  crowd.  The 
wonder  of  those  mountaineers  when  he  put  his 
rod  together,  fastened  the  reel,  and  tossed  his 
hook  fifty  feet  in  the  air  was  worth  the  morn 
ing's  climb  to  see.  At  the  same  time  they  made 
fun  of  our  rods,  and  laughed  at  the  idea  of  get 
ting  out  a  big  "  green  pyerch  " — as  the  moun 
taineers  call  bass  —  with  "them  switches. " 
Their  method  is  to  tie  a  strong  line  to  a  long 
hickory  sapling,  and,  when  they  strike  a  bass, 
to  put  the  stout  pole  over  one  shoulder  and  walk 
204 


THROUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

ashore  with  it.  Before  the  sun  was  over  the 
mountain,  we  were  wading  down  the  stream, 
while  two  boys  carried  our  minnows  and  clothes 
along  the  bank.  The  news  of  our  coming 
went  before  us,  and  every  now  and  then  a  man 
would  roll  out  of  the  bushes  with  a  gun  and  / 
look  at  us  with  much  suspicion  and  some  won-  ' 
der.  For  two  luckless  hours  we  cast  down  that 
too  narrow  and  too  shallow  stream  before  we 
learned  that  there  was  a  dam  two  miles  farther 
down,  and  at  once  we  took  the  land  for  it.  It 
was  after  dinner  when  we  reached  it,  and  there 
the  boys  left  us.  We  could  not  induce  them  to 
go  farther.  An  old  miller  sat  outside  his  mill 
across  the  river,  looking  at  us  with  some  curi 
osity,  but  no  surprise,  for  the  coming  of  a  stran 
ger  in  those  mountains  is  always  known  miles! 
ahead  of  him.  v 

We  told  him  our  names  and  that  we  were 
from  Virginia,  but  were  natives  of  the  Blue- 
grass,  and  we  asked  if  he  could  give  us  dinner. 
His  house  was  half  a  mile  farther  down  the 
river,  he  said,  but  the  women  folks  were  at 
home,  and  he  reckoned  they  would  give  us 
something  to  eat.  When  we  started,  I  shifted 
my  revolver  from  my  pocket  to  a  kodak-camera 
case  that  I  had  brought  along  to  hold  fishing- 
tackle. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  put  this  thing  in  here?  "  I 
205 


THROUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

said  to  Breck,  not  wanting  to  risk  arrest  for  car 
rying  concealed  weapons  and  the  confiscation  of 
the  pistol,  which  was  valuable.  Breck  hesitat 
ed,  and  the  old  miller  studied  us  keenly. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  you  two  air  from  Kane- 
tucky,  hit  strikes  me  you  ought  to  know  the 
laws  of  yo1  own  State.  You  can  carry  it  in  thar 
as  baggage,"  he  added,  quietly,  and  I  knew  that 
my  question  had  added  another  fagot  to  the 
flame  of  suspicion  kindling  against  us. 

In  half  an  hour  we  were  in  the  cool  shade  of 
a  spreading  apple-tree  in  the  miller's  yard,  with 
our  bare  feet  in  thick,  cool  grass,  while  the  mill 
er's  wife  and  his  buxom,  red-cheeked  daughter 
got  us  dinner.  And  a  good  dinner  it  was ;  and 
we  laughed  and  cracked  jokes  at  each  other  till 
the  sombre,  suspicious  old  lady  relaxed  and 
laughed,  too,  and  the  girl  lost  some  of  her  tim 
idity  and  looked  upon  Breck  with  wide-eyed  ad 
miration,  while  Breck  ogled  back  outrageously. 

After  dinner  a  scowling  mountaineer  led  a 
mule  through  the  yard  and  gave  us  a  surly  nod. 
Two  horsemen  rode  up  to  the  gate  and  waited 
to  escort  us  down  the  river.  One  of  them  car 
ried  our  baggage,  for  no  matter  what  he  sus 
pects,  the  mountaineer  will  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  a  stranger  until  the  moment  of  actual 
conflict  comes.  In  our  green  innocence,  we 
thought  it  rather  a  good  joke  that  we  should  be 
206 


THROUGH   THE   BAD   BEND 

taken  for  revenue  men,  so  that,  Break's  flask 
being  empty,  he  began  by  telling  one  of  the  men 
that  we  had  been  wading  the  river  all  the  morn 
ing,  that  the  water  was  cold,  and  that,  anyway, 
a  little  swallow  now  and  then  often  saved  a  fel 
low  from  a  cold  and  fever.  He  had  not  been 
able  to  get  any  from  anybody — and  couldn't 
the  man  do  something?  The  mountaineer  was 
touched,  and  he  took  the  half-dollar  that  Breck 
gave  him,  and  turned  it  over,  with  a  whispered 
consultation,  to  one  of  two  more  horsemen  that 
we  met  later  on  the  road.  Still  farther  on  we 
found  a  beautiful  hole  of  water,  edged  with  a 
smooth  bank  of  sand — a  famous  place,  the  men 
told  us,  for  green  "  pyerch."  Mountaineers 
rolled  out  of  the  bushes  to  watch  us  while  we 
were  rigging  up,  some  with  guns  and  some  with 
out.  We  left  our  pistols  on  the  shore,  and  sev 
eral  examined  them  curiously,  especially  mine, 
which  was  hammerless.  Later,  I  showed  them 
how  it  worked,  and  explained  that  one  advan 
tage  of  it  was  that,  in  close  quarters,  the  other 
man  could  not  seize  your  pistol,  get  his  finger  or 
thumb  under  your  hammer,  and  prevent  you 
from  shooting  at  all.  This  often  happens  in  a 
fight,  of  course,  and  the  point  appealed  to  them 
strongly,  but  I  could  see  that  they  were  wonder 
ing  why  I  should  be  carrying  a  gun  that  was 
good  for  close  quarters,  since  close  quarters  are 
207 


THROUGH   THE   BAD   BEND 

rarely  necessary  except  in  case  of  making  ar 
rests.  Pretty  soon  the  two  men  who  had  gone 
for  Breck's  "  moonshine  "  returned,  and  a  gleam 
rose  in  Breck's  eye  and  went  quickly  down.  In 
stead  of  a  bottle,  the  boy  handed  back  the  half- 
dollar. 

"  I  couldn't  git  any,"  he  said.  He  lied,  of 
course,  as  we  both  knew,  and  the  disappoint 
ment  in  Breck's  face  was  so  sincere  that  his 
companion,  with  a  gesture  that  was  half  sym 
pathy,  half  defiance,  whisked  a  bottle  from 
his  hip. 

«  Well,  by I'll  give  him  a  drink!  " 

It  was  fiery,  white  as  water,  and  so  fresh  that 
we  could  taste  the  smoke  in  it,  but  it  was  good, 
and  we  were  grateful.  All  the  afternoon,  from 
two  to  a  dozen  people  watched  us  fish,  but  we 
had  poor  luck,  which  is  never  a  surprise,  fishing 
for  bass.  Perhaps  the  fish  had  gone  to  nesting, 
or  the  trouble  may  have  been  the  light  of  the 
moon,  during  which  they  feed  all  night,  and  are 
not  so  hungry  through  the  day;  or  it  may  have 
been  any  of  the  myriad  reasons  that  make  the 
mystery  and  fascination  of  catching  bass.  At 
another  time,  and  from  the  same  stream,  I  have 
seen  two  rods  take  out  one  hundred  bass,  rang 
ing  from  one  to  five  pounds  in  weight,  in  a  sin 
gle  day.  An  hour  by  sun,  we  struck  for  the 
house  of  the  old  man  with  whom  we  had  crossed 
208 


THKOUGH   THE    BAD   BEND 

the  mountain,  and,  that  night,  we  learned  that 
we  had  passed  through  a  locality  alive  with 
moonshiners,  and  banded  together  with  such 
system  and  determination  that  the  revenue 
agents  rarely  dared  to  make  a  raid  on  them. 
We  were  supposed  to  be  two  spies  who  were 
expected  to  come  in  there  that  spring.  We  had 
passed  within  thirty  yards  of  a  dozen  stills,  and 
our  host  hinted  where  we  might  find  them.  We 
thanked  him,  and  told  him  we  preferred  to  keep 
as  far  away  from  them  as  possible.  He  was 
much  puzzled.  He  also  said  that  we  had  been 
in  the  head-quarters  of  a  famous  desperado, 
who  was  the  leader  of  the  Howard  faction  in 
the  famous  Howard-Turner  feud.  He  was  a 
non-combatant  himself,  but  he  had  "  feelin's," 
as  he  phrased  it,  for  the  other  side.  He  was 
much  surprised  when  we  told  him  we  were 
going  back  there  next  day.  We  had  told  the 
people  we  were  coming  back,  and  next  morning 
we  were  foolish  enough  to  go. 

As  soon  as  we  struck  the  river,  we  saw  a  man 
with  a  Winchester  sitting  on  a  log  across  the 
stream,  as  though  his  sole  business  in  life  was 
to  keep  an  eye  on  us.  All  that  day  we  were 
never  out  of  sight  of  a  mountaineer  and  a  gun ; 
we  never  had  been,  I  presume,  since  our  first 
breakfast  on  that  stream.  Still,  everybody  was 
kind  and  hospitable  and  honest — how  honest 
209 


THEOUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

this  incident  will  show.  An  old  woman  cooked 
dinner  especially  for  us,  and  I  gave  her  two 
quarters.  She  took  them,  put  them  away,  and 
while  she  sat  smoking  her  pipe,  I  saw  something 
was  troubling  her.  She  got  up  presently,  went 
into  a  room,  came  back,  and  without  a  word 
dropped  one  of  the  quarters  into  my  hand. 
Half  a  dollar  was  too  much.  They  gave  us 
moonshine,  too,  and  Breck  remarked  casually 
that  we  were  expecting  to  meet  our  friends  at 
Uncle  Job  Turner's,  somewhere  down  the  river. 
They  would  have  red  whiskey  from  the  Blue- 
grass  and  we  would  be  all  right.  Then  he  asked 
how  far  down  Uncle  Job  lived.  The  remark 
and  the  question  occasioned  very  badly  con 
cealed  excitement,  and  I  wondered  what  had 
happened,  but  I  did  not  ask.  I  was  getting 
wary,  and  I  had  become  quite  sure  that  the  fish 
ing  must  be  better  down,  very  far  down,  that 
stream.  When  we  started  again,  the  moun 
taineers  evidently  held  a  quick  council  of  war. 
One  can  hear  a  long  distance  over  water  at  the 
quiet  of  dusk,  and  they  were  having  a  lively  dis 
cussion  about  us  and  our  business  over  there. 
Somebody  was  defending  us,  and  I  recognized 
the  voice  as  belonging  to  a  red-whiskered  fel 
low,  who  said  he  had  lived  awhile  in  the  Blue- 
grass,  and  had  seen  young  fellows  starting  to 
the  Kentucky  River  to  fish  for  fun.  "  Oh,  them 
210 


THEOUGH   THE    BAD    BEND 

damn  fellers  ain't  up  to  nothing"  we  could  hear 
him  say,  with  the  disgust  of  the  cosmopolitan. 
"  I  tell  ye,  they  lives  in  town  an'  they  likes  to 
git  out  this  way!  " 

I  have  always  believed  that  this  man  saved  us 
trouble  right  then,  for  next  night  the  mountain 
eers  came  down  in  a  body  to  the  house  where  we 
had  last  stopped.  But  we  had  gone  on  rather 
hastily,  and  when  we  reached  Uncle  Job  Tur 
ner's,  the  trip  behind  us  became  more  interest 
ing  than  ever  in  retrospect.  All  along  we  asked 
where  Uncle  Job  lived,  and  once  we  shouted 
the  question  across  the  river,  where  some  women 
and  boys  were  at  work,  weeding  corn.  As  usual, 
the  answer  was  another  question,  and  always  the 
same — what  were  our  names?  Breck  yelled,  in 
answer,  that  we  were  from  Virginia,  and  that 
they  would  be  no  wiser  if  we  should  tell — an 
answer  that  will  always  be  unwise  in  the  moun 
tains  of  Kentucky  as  long  as  moonshine  is  made 
and  feuds  survive.  We  asked  again,  and  an 
other  yell  told  us  that  the  next  house  was  Uncle 
Job's.  The  next  house  was  rather  pretentious. 
It  had  two  or  three  rooms,  apparently,  and  a 
loft,  and  was  weather-boarded;  but  it  was  as 
silent  as  a  tomb.  We  shouted  "  Hello!  "  from 
outside  the  fence,  which  is  etiquette  in  the  moun 
tains.  Not  a  sound.  We  shouted  again — once, 
twice,  many  times.  It  was  most  strange.  Then 

211 


THROUGH   THE    BAD   BEND 

we  waited,  and  shouted  again,  and  at  last  a  big 
gray-haired  old  fellow  slouched  out  and  asked 
rather  surlily  what  we  wanted. 

"  Dinner." 

He  seemed  pleased  that  that  was  all,  and  his 
manner  changed  immediately.  His  wife  ap 
peared;  then,  as  if  by  magic,  two  or  three  chil 
dren,  one  a  slim,  wild,  dark-eyed  girl  of  fifteen, 
dressed  in  crimson  homespun.  As  we  sat  on  the 
porch  I  saw  her  passing  through  the  dark  rooms, 
but  always,  while  we  were  there,  if  I  entered  one 
door  she  slipped  out  of  the  other.  Breck  was 
more  fortunate.  He  came  up  behind  her  the 
next  day  at  sundown  while  she  was  dancing  bare 
footed  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  driving  her  cows 
home.  Later  I  saw  him  in  the  cow-pen,  helping 
her  milk.  He  said  she  was  very  nice,  but  very- 
shy. 

We  got  dinner,  and  the  old  man  sent  after  a 
bottle  of  moonshine,  and  in  an  hour  he  was 
thawed  out  wonderfully. 

We  told  him  where  we  had  been,  and  as  he 
slowly  began  to  believe  us,  he  alternately  grew 
sobered  and  laughed  aloud. 

"  Went  through  thar  fishing  did  ye?  Wore 
yo'  pistols  ?  Axed  whar  thar  was  branches  whar 
you  could  ketch  minners?  Oh,  Lawdl  Didn't 
ye  know  that  the  stills  air  al'ays  up  the  branches? 
ToF  'em  you  was  goin'  to  meet  a  party  at  my 
212 


THKOUGH   THE    BAD   BEND 

house,  and  stay  here  awhile  fishin'?  Oh, 
Lawdy !  Ef  that  ain't  a  good  un !  " 

We  didn't  see  it,  but  we  did  later,  when  we 
knew  that  we  had  come  through  the  "  Bad 
Bend,"  which  was  the  head-quarters  of  the  How 
ard  leader  and  his  chief  men;  that  Uncle  Job 
was  the  most  prominent  man  of  the  other  fac 
tion,  and  lived  farthest  up  the  river  of  all  the 
Turners ;  that  he  hadn't  been  up  in  the  Bend  for 
ten  years,  and  that  we  had  given  his  deadly  en 
emies  the  impression  that  we  were  friends  of  his. 
As  Uncle  Job  grew  mellow,  and  warmed  up  in 
his  confidences,  something  else  curious  came  out. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would  look  at  me  and 
say: 

"  I  seed  you  lookin'  at  my  pants."  And  then 
he  would  throw  back  his  head  and  laugh.  After 
he  had  said  this  for  the  third  time,  I  did  look  at 
his  "  pants,"  and  I  saw  that  he  was  soaking  wet 
to  the  thighs — why,  I  soon  learned.  A  nephew 
of  his  had  killed  a  man  at  the  county-seat  only  a 
week  before.  Uncle  Job  had  gone  on  his  bond. 
When  we  shouted  across  the  river,  he  was  in  the 
cornfield,  and  when  we  did  not  tell  our  names, 
he  got  suspicious,  and,  mistaking  our  rod-holders 
for  guns,  had  supposed  that  his  nephew  had  run 
away,  and  that  we  were  officers  come  to  arrest 
him.  He  had  run  down  the  river  on  the  other 
side,  had  waded  the  stream,  and  was  up  in  the 
213 


THROUGH   THE   BAD   BEND 

loft  with  his  Winchester  on  us  while  we  were 
shouting  at  his  gate.  He  told  us  this  very 
frankly.  Nor  would  even  he  believe  that  we 
were  fishing.  He,  too,  thought  that  we  were 
officers  looking  through  the  Bad  Bend  for  some 
criminal,  and  the  least  innocent  mission  that 
struck  him  as  plausible  was  that,  perhaps,  we 
might  be  looking  over  the  ground  to  locate  a 
railroad,  or  prospecting  for  coal  veins.  When 
Uncle  Job  went  down  the  road  with  us  the  next 
morning,  he  took  his  wife  along,  so  that  no 
Howard  would  try  to  ambush  him  through  fear 
of  hitting  a  woman.  And  late  that  afternoon, 
when  we  were  fishing  with  Uncle  Job's  son  in 
some  thick  bushes  behind  the  house,  some  wom 
en  passed  along  in  the  path  above  us,  and,  seeing 
us,  but  not  seeing  him,  scurried  out  of  sight  as 
though  frightened.  Little  Job  grinned. 

"  Them  women  thinks  the  Howards  have 
hired  you  fellers  to  layway  dad." 

The  next  morning  I  lost  Breck,  and  about 
noon  I  got  a  note  from  him,  written  with  a  trem 
bling  lead-pencil,  to  the  effect  that  he  believed 
he  would  fish  up  a  certain  creek  that  afternoon. 
As  the  creek  was  not  more  than  three  feet  wide 
and  a  few  inches  deep,  I  knew  what  had  hap 
pened,  and  I  climbed  one  of  Job's  mules  and 
went  to  search  for  him.  Breck  had  stumbled 
upon  a  moonshine  still,  and,  getting  hilarious, 
214 


THROUGH   THE    BAD    BEND 

had  climbed  a  barrel  and  was  making  to  a  crowd 
of  mountaineers  a  fiery  political  speech.  Breck 
had  captured  that  creek,  "  wild-cat  "  still  and 
all,  and  to  this  day  I  never  meet  a  mountaineer 
from  that  region  who  does  not  ask,  with  a  wide 
grin,  about  Breck. 

When  we  reached  the  county-seat,  the  next 
day,  we  met  the  revenue  deputy.  He  said  the 
town  was  talking  about  two  spies  who  were  up 
the  Fork.  We  told  him  that  we  must  be  the 
spies.  The  old  miller  was  the  brains  of  the 
Bend,  he  said,  both  in  outwitting  the  revenue 
men  and  in  planning  the  campaign  of  the  How 
ard  leader  against  the  Turners,  and  he  told  us 
of  several  fights  he  had  had  in  the  Bad  Bend. 
He  said  that  we  were  lucky  to  come  through 
alive;  that  what  saved  us  was  sticking  to  the 
river,  hiring  our  minnows  caught,  leaving  our 
pistols  on  the  bank  to  be  picked  up  by  anybody, 
the  defence  of  the  red-whiskered  man  from  the 
Blue-grass,  and  Breck's  popularity  at  the  still. 
I  thought  he  was  exaggerating — that  the  moun 
taineers,  even  if  convinced  that  we  were  spies, 
would  have  given  us  a  chance  to  get  out  of  the 
country — but  when  he  took  me  over  to  a  room 
across  the  street  and  showed  me  where  his  pred 
ecessor,  a  man  whom  I  had  known  quite  well, 
was  shot  through  a  window  at  night  and  killed, 
I  was  not  quite  so  sure. 

215 


THROUGH    THE    BAD    BEND 

.  But  still  another  straw  of  suspicion  was  await 
ing  us.  When  we  reached  the  railroad  again — by 
another  route,  you  may  be  sure — Breck,  being  a 
lawyer,  got  permission  for  us  to  ride  on  a 
freight-train,  and  thus  save  a  night  and  a  day. 
The  pass  for  us  was  technically  charged  to  the 
mail  service.  The  captain  and  crew  of  the  train 
were  overwhelmingly  and  mysteriously  polite  to 
us — an  inexplicable  contrast  to  the  surliness  with 
which  passengers  are  usually  treated  on  a 
freight-train.  When  we  got  off  at  the  Gap,  and 
several  people  greeted  us  by  name,  the  captain 
laughed. 

"  Do  you  know  what  these  boys  thought  you 
two  were?"  he  asked,  referring  to  his  crew. 
"  They  thought  you  were  freight  '  spotters.'  ' 

The  crew  laughed.  I  looked  at  Breck,  and  I 
didn't  wonder.  He  was  a  ragged,  unshaven 
tramp,  and  I  was  another. 

Months  later,  I  got  a  message  from  the  Bad 
Bend.  Breck  and  I  mustn't  come  through  there 
any  more.  We  have  never  gone  through  there 
any  more,  though  anybody  on  business  that  the 
mountaineers  understand,  can  go  more  safely 
than  he  can  cross  Broadway  at  Twenty-third 
Street,  at  noon.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however, 
there  are  two  other  forks  to  the  Cumberland  in 
which  the  fishing  is  very  good  indeed,  and  just 
now  I  would  rather  risk  Broadway. 
216 


TO   THE   BREAKS   OF   SANDY 


TO   THE    BREAKS   OF   SANDY 

DOWN  in  the  southwestern  corner  of  Vir 
ginia,  and  just  over  the  Kentucky  line,  are 
the  Gap  and  "  The  Gap  " — the  one  made  by  na 
ture  and  the  other  by  man.  One  is  a  ragged 
gash  down  through  the  Cumberland  Mountains, 
from  peak  to  water  level ;  and  the  other  is  a  new 
little,  queer  little  town,  on  a  pretty  plateau  which 
is  girdled  by  two  running  streams  that  loop  and 
come  together  like  the  framework  of  an  ancient 
lute.  Northeast  the  range  runs,  unbroken  by  na 
ture  and  undisturbed  by  man,  until  it  crumbles  at 
the  Breaks  of  Sandy,  seventy  miles  away.  There 
the  bass  leaps  from  rushing  waters,  and  there,  as 
nowhere  else  this  side  of  the  Rockies,  is  the  face 
of  nature  wild  and  shy. 

It  was  midsummer,  the  hour  was  noon,  and  we 
were  bound  for  the  Breaks  of  Sandy,  seventy 
miles  away. 

No  similar  aggregate  of  man,  trap,  and  beast 
had  ever  before  penetrated  those  mountain  wilds. 
The  wagon  was  high-seated  and  the  team  was 
spiked,  with  Rock  and  Ridgling  as  wheel  horses, 
Diavolo  as  leader,  and  Dolly,  a  half  thorough- 
219 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

bred,  galloping  behind  under  Sam,  the  black 
cook,  and  a  wild  Western  saddle,  with  high 
pommels,  heavily  hooded  stirrups,  hand-worked 
leather,  and  multitudinous  straps  and  shaking 
rawhide  strings;  and  running  alongside,  Tiger, 
bull-terrier.  Any  man  who  was  at  Andover, 
Cornell,  or  Harvard  during  certain  years  will,  if 
he  sees  these  lines,  remember  Tiger. 

As  for  the  men — there  was  Josh,  ex-captain 
of  a  Kentucky  Horse  Guard,  ex-captain  of  the 
volunteer  police  force  back  at  "  The  Gap,"  and, 
like  Henry  Clay,  always  captain  whenever  and 
wherever  there  was  anything  to  be  done  and 
more  than  one  man  was  needed  to  do  it;  now, 
one  of  the  later-day  pioneers  who  went  back  over 
the  Cumberland,  not  many  years  ago,  to  reclaim 
a  certain  wild  little  corner  of  old  Virginia,  and 
then,  as  now,  the  first  man  and  the  leading  law 
yer  of  the  same.  There  was  another  Kentuck- 
ian,  fresh  from  the  Blue-grass — Little  Willie,  as 
he  was  styled  on  this  trip — being  six  feet  three 
in  his  bare  feet,  carrying  190  pounds  of  bone 
and  muscle;  champion  heavy-weight  with  his 
fists  in  college  (he  could  never  get  anybody  to 
fight  with  him),  centre-rush  in  foot-ball,  with 
this  grewsome  record  of  broken  bones:  collar 
bone,  one  leg,  one  knee  three  times,  and  three 
teeth  smashed — smashed  by  biting  through  his 
nose  guard  against  each  other  when  he  set  his 
220 


TO    THE    BEEAKS    OP    SANDY 

jaws  to  break  through  a  hostile  line.  Also, 
Willie  was  ex-bugler  of  a  military  school,  singer 
of  coon  songs  unrivalled,  and  with  other  accom 
plishments  for  which  there  is  no  space  here  to 
record.  There  was  Dan,  boy-manager  of  a 
mighty  coal  company,  good  fellow,  and  of  im 
portance  to  the  dog-lover  as  the  master  of  Ti 
ger.  I  include  Tiger  here,  because  he  was  so 
little  less  than  human.  There  are  no  words  to 
describe  Tiger.  He  was  prepared  for  Yale  at 
Andover,  went  to  Cornell  in  a  pet,  took  a  post 
graduate  course  at  Harvard,  and,  getting  indif 
ference  and  world-weariness  there,  followed  his 
master  to  pioneer  in  the  Cumberland.  Tiger 
has  a  white  collar,  white-tipped  tail,  white 
feet;  his  body  is  short,  strong,  close-knit,  tawny, 
ringed;  and  his  peculiar  distinctions  are  intelli 
gence,  character,  magnetism.  All  through  the 
mountains  Tiger  has  run  his  fifty  miles  a  day 
behind  Dolly,  the  thorough-bred;  so  that,  in  a 
radius  of  a  hundred  miles,  there  is  nobody  who 
does  not  know  that  dog.  Still,  he  never  walks 
unless  it  is  necessary,  and  his  particular  oscilla 
tion  is  between  the  mines  and  "  The  Gap,"  ten 
miles  apart.  Being  a  coal  magnate,  he  has  an 
annual  pass  and  he  always  takes  the  train — 
alone,  if  he  pleases — changing  cars  three  times 
and  paying  no  attention,  until  his  stations  are 
called.  Sometimes  he  is  too  weary  to  go  to  a 
221 


TO    THE   BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

station,  so  he  sits  down  on  the  track  and  waits 
for  the  train.  I  have  known  the  engineer  of  a 
heavily  laden  freight  train  to  slacken  up  when 
he  saw  Tiger  trotting  ahead  between  the  rails, 
and  stop  to  take  him  aboard,  did  Tiger  but  nod 
at  him.  I  have  never  seen  man,  woman,  or 
child,  of  respectable  antecedents,  whom  that  dog 
didn't  love,  and  nobody,  regardless  of  antece 
dents,  who  didn't  love  that  dog. 

Such,  we  rattled  out  of  u  The  Gap  "  that  mid 
summer  noon.  Northward,  through  the  Gap, .a 
cloud  of  dun  smoke  hung  over  the  Hades  of  coke 
ovens  that  Dan  had  planted  in  the  hills.  On  the 
right  was  the  Ridge,  heavy  with  beds  of  ore. 
Straight  ahead  was  a  furnace,  from  which  the 
coke  rose  as  pale-blue  smoke  and  the  ore  gave 
out  a  stream  of  molten  iron.  Farther  on,  moun 
tains  to  the  right  and  mountains  to  the  left  came 
together  at  a  little  gap,  and  toward  that  point 
we  rattled  up  Powell's  Valley — smiling  back  at 
the  sun ;  furnace,  ore-mine,  coke-cloud,  and  other 
ugly  signs  of  civilization  dropping  behind  us 
fast,  and  our  eyes  set  toward  one  green,  lovely 
spot  that  was  a  shrine  of  things  primeval. 

In  the  wagon  we  had  a  tent,  and  things  to  eat, 
and  a  wooden  box  that  looked  like  a  typewriter 
case,  under  lock  and  key,  and  eloquently  in 
scribed  : 

"  Glass,  2  gal."    It  is  a  great  way  to  carry  the 

222 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OP    SANDY 

indispensable — in  a  wagon — and  I  recommend  it 
to  fishermen. 

At  the  foot  of  the  first  mountain  was  a  spring 
and  we  stopped  to  water  the  horses  and  unlock 
that  case.  Twenty  yards  above,  and  to  one  side 
of  the  road,  a  mountaineer  was  hanging  over  the 
fence,  looking  down  at  us. 

"Have  a  drink?  "said  Josh. 

"  Yes,"  he  drawled,  "  if  ye'll  fetch  it  up." 

"  Come  an'  get  it,"  said  Josh,  shortly. 

"  Are  you  sick?  "  I  asked. 

"  Sort  o'  puny." 

We  drank. 

"  Have  a  drink?  "  said  Josh  once  more. 

"  If  ye'll  fetch  it  up." 

Josh  drove  the  cork  home  with  the  muscular 
base  of  his  thumb. 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  do." 

Dan  whistled  to  Diavolo,  and  we  speculated. 
It  was  queer  conduct  in  the  mountaineer — why 
didn't  he  come  down  ? 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dan. 

"  He  really  came  down  for  a  drink,"  I  said, 
knowing  the  mountaineer's  independence,  "  and 
he  wanted  to  prove  to  himself  and  to  us  that  he 
didn't." 

"  A  smart  Alec,"  said  Little  Willie. 

"  A  plain  damn  fool,"  said  Josh. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  on  top  of  the 
223 


TO    THE   BEEAKS    OF    SANDY 

mountain,  in  the  little  gap  where  the  mountains 
came  together.  Below  us  the  valley  started  on 
its  long,  rich  sweep  southward,  and  beyond  were 
the  grim  shoulders  of  Black  Mountains,  which 
we  were  to  brush  now  and  then  on  our  way  to 
the  "  Breaks." 

There  Dan  put  Tiger  out  of  the  wagon  and 
made  him  walk.  After  three  plaintive  whines  to 
his  master  to  show  cause  for  such  an  outrage,  Ti 
ger  dropped  nose  and  eyes  to  the  ground  and 
jogged  along  with  such  human  sullenness  that 
Willie  was  led  to  speak  to  him.  Tiger  paid  no 
attention.  I  called  him  and  Dan  called  him. 
Tiger  never  so  much  as  lifted  eye  or  ear,  and 
Willie  watched  him,  wondering. 

"  Why,  that  dog's  got  a  grouch,"  he  said  at 
last,  delightedly.  "  I  tell  you  he's  got  a  grouch." 
It  was  Willie's  first  observation  of  Tiger.  Of 
course  he  had  a  "  grouch  "  as  distinctly  as  a  child 
who  is  old  enough  to  show  petulance  with  dig 
nity.  And  having  made  us  feel  sufficiently  mean, 
Tiger  dropped  quite  behind,  as  though  to  say: 
"  I'm  gettin'  kind  o'  tired  o'  this.  Now  '  It's 
come  here,  Tiger,'  and  *  Stick  in  the  mud,  Ti 
ger,'  and  straightway  again,  *  Tiger,  come  here.' 
I  don't  like  it.  I'd  go  home  if  it  weren't  for 
Dolly  and  this  nigger  here,  whom  I  reckon  I've 
got  to  watch.  But  I'll  stick  in  the  mud."  And 
he  did. 

224 


TO    THE    BEEAKS    OF    SANDY 

At  dusk  we  passed  through  Norton,  where 
Talt  Hall,  desperado,  killed  his  thirteenth  and 
last  man,  and  on  along  a  rocky,  muddy,  Stygian- 
black  road  to  Wise  Court-house,  where  our 
police  guard  from  "  The  Gap,"  with  Josh  as 
captain,  guarded  Talt  for  one  month  to  keep 
his  Kentucky  clan  from  rescuing  him.  And 
there  we  told  Dan  and  the  big  Kentuckian  how 
banker,  broker,  lawyer,  and  doctor  left  his 
business  and  his  home,  cut  port-holes  in  the 
court-house,  put  the  town  under  martial  law, 
and,  with  twenty  men  with  Winchesters  in  the 
rude  box  that  enclosed  the  scaffold,  and  a  cor 
don  of  a  hundred  more  in  a  circle  outside,  to 
keep  back  a  thousand  mountaineers,  thus  made 
possible  the  first  hanging  that  the  county  had 
ever  known.  And  how,  later,  in  the  same 
way  we  hung  old  Doc  Taylor,  Hall's  enemy — 
Swedenborgian  preacher,  herb  doctor,  revenue 
officer,  and  desperado — the  "  Red  Fox  of  the 
Mountains."  \S 

The  two  listeners  were  much  interested,  for, 
in  truth,  that  police  guard  of  gentlemen  who 
hewed  strictly  to  the  line  of  the  law,  who  pa 
trolled  the  streets  of  "  The  Gap  "  with  billy, 
whistle,  and  pistol,  knocking  down  toughs,  lug 
ging  them  to  the  calaboose,  appearing  in  court 
against  them  next  morning,  and  maintaining  a 
fund  for  the  prosecution  of  them  in  the  higher 
225 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

courts,  was  as  unique  and  successful  an  experi 
ment  in  civilization  as  any  borderland  has  ever 
known. 

Next  day  we  ran  the  crests  of  long  ridges 
and  struck  good  roads,  and  it  was  then  that  we 
spiked  Rock  and  Ridgling,  with  Diavolo  as 
leader. 

"Tool  'em!"  shouted  Willie,  and  we 
"  tooled  "  joyously.  A  coach-horn  was  all  that 
we  lacked,  and  we  did  not  lack  that  long. 
Willie  evolved  one  from  his  unaided  throat,  in 
some  mysterious  way  that  he  could  not  explain, 
but  he  did  the  tooting  about  as  well  as  it  is  ever 
done  with  a  horn.  It  was  hot,  and  the  natives 
stared.  They  took  us  for  the  advance-guard  of 
a  circus. 

"  Where  are  you  goin'  to  show?  "  they  shout 
ed.  We  crossed  ridges,  too,  tooling  recklessly 
about  the  edges  of  precipices  and  along  roads 
scarcely  wide  enough  for  one  wagon  —  Dan 
swinging  to  the  brake  with  one  hand  and  holding 
Josh  in  the  driver's  seat  with  the  other — Willie 
and  I  speculating,  meanwhile,  how  much  higher 
the  hind  wheel  could  go  from  the  ground  before 
the  wagon  would  overturn.  It  was  great  fun, 
and  dangerous. 

"  Hank  Monks  is  not  in  it,"  said  Willie. 

The  brake  required  both  of  Dan's  hands  just 
then  and  Josh  flew  out  into  space  and  landed  on 
226 


They  took  us  for  the  advance-guard  of  a  circus. 


TO    THE   BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

his  shoulder,  some  ten  feet  down  the  mountain, 
unhurt. 

Rock,  though  it  was  his  first  work  under  har 
ness,  was  steady  as  a  plough-horse.  Ridgling 
now  and  then  would  snort  and  plunge  and  paw, 
getting  one  foot  over  the  wagon  tongue.  Di- 
avolo,  like  his  master,  was  a  born  leader,  or  we 
should  have  had  trouble  indeed. 

That  night  we  struck  another  county-seat, 
where  the  court-house  had  been  a  brick  bone  of 
contention  for  many,  many  years — two  localities 
claiming  the  elsewhere  undisputed  honor,  for  the 
reason  that  they  alone  had  the  only  two  level 
acres  in  the  county  on  which  a  court-house  could 
stand.  A  bitter  fight  it  was,  and  they  do  say 
that  not  many  years  ago,  in  a  similar  conflict, 
the  opposing  factions  met  to  decide  the  question 
with  fist  and  skull — 150  picked  men  on  each  side 
— a  direct  and  curious  survival  of  the  ancient 
wager  of  battle.  The  women  prevented  the 
fight.  Over  in  Kentucky  there  would  have  been 
a  bloody  feud.  At  that  town  we  had  but  fitful 
sleep.  Certain  little  demons  of  the  dark,  which 
shall  be  nameless,  marked  us,  as  they  always 
mark  fresh  victims,  for  their  own. 

"  I'll  bet  they  look  over  the  register  every- 
night,"  said  Willie  —  baring  a  red-splotched 
brawny  arm  next  morning. 

;<  Wingless  victory !  "  he  said,   further. 
227 


TO    THE   BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

And  then  on.  Wilder  and  ever  wilder,  next 
day,  grew  the  hills  and  woods  and  the  slitting 
chasms  between  them.  First  one  hind  wheel 
dished — we  braced  it  with  hickory  saplings. 
Then  the  other — we  braced  that.  The  harness 
broke — Dan  mended  that.  A  horse  cast  a  shoe 
— Josh  shod  him  then  and  there.  These  two 
were  always  tinkering,  and  were  happy.  Ineffi 
ciency  made  Willie  and  me  miserable  —  it  was 
plain  that  we  were  to  be  hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water  on  that  trip,  and  we  were. 

And  still  wilder  and  ever  wilder  was  the 
face  of  Nature,  which  turned  primeval — turned 
Greek.  Willie  swore  he  could  see  the  fleeting 
shapes  of  nymphs  in  the  dancing  sunlight  and 
shadows  under  the  beeches.  Where  the  cane- 
rushes  shivered  and  shook  along  the  bank  of  a 
creek,  it  was  a  satyr  chasing  a  dryad  through 
them ;  and  once — it  may  have  been  the  tinkle  of 
water — but  I  was  sure  I  heard  her  laugh  float 
from  a  dark  little  ravine  high  above,  where  she 
had  fled  to  hide.  No  wonder!  We  were  ap 
proaching  the  most  isolated  spot,  perhaps,  this 
side  of  the  Rockies.  If  this  be  hard  to  believe, 
listen.  Once  we  stopped  at  a  cabin,  and  Sam, 
the  black  cook,  went  in  for  a  drink  of  water. 
A  little  girl  saw  him  and  was  thrown  almost 
into  convulsions  of  terror.  She  had  never  seen 
a  negro  before.  Her  mother  had  told  her, 
228 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

doubtless,  that  the  bad  man  would  get  her  some 
day  and  she  thought  Sam  was  the  devil  and  that 
he  had  come  for  her.  And  this  in  Virginia.  I 
knew  there  were  many  white  people  in  Virginia, 
and  all  throughout  the  Cumberland,  who  had 
never  seen  a  black  man,  and  why  they  hate  him 
as  they  do  has  always  been  a  mystery,  especially 
as  they  often  grant  him  social  equality,  even  to 
the  point  of  eating  at  the  same  table  with  him, 
though  the  mountaineer  who  establishes  certain 
relations  with  the  race  that  is  still  tolerated  in 
the  South,  brings  himself  into  lasting  disgrace. 
Perhaps  the  hostility  reaches  back  to  the  time 
when  the  poor  white  saw  him  a  fatal  enemy, 
as  a  slave,  to  the  white  man  who  must  work  with 
his  hands.  And  yet,  to  say  that  this  competition, 
with  the  black  man,  along  with  a  hatred  of  his 
aristocratic  master,  was  the  reason  for  the  uni 
versal  Union  sentiment  of  the  Southern  moun 
taineer  during  the  war  is  absurd.  Competition 
ceased  nearly  a  century  ago.  Negro  and  aristo 
crat  were  forgotten — were  long  unknown.  No 
historian  seems  to  have  guessed  that  the  moun 
taineer  was  loyal  because  of  1776.  The  fight 
for  the  old  flag  in  1812  and  the  Mexican  War 
helped,  but  1776  was  enough  to  keep  him  loyal 
to  this  day;  for  to-day,  in  life,  character,  cus 
toms,  speech,  and  conviction,  he  is  practically 
what  he  was  then.  But  a  change  is  coming  now, 
229 


TO   THE    BKEAKS    OF    SANDY 

and  down  in  a  little  hollow  we  saw,  suddenly,  a 
startling  sign — a  frame  house  with  an  upper 
balcony,  and,  moving  along  that  balcony,  a  tall 
figure  in  a  pink  ungirded  Mother  Hubbard. 
And,  mother  of  all  that  is  modern,  we  saw 
against  the  doorway  below  her — a  bicycle.  We 
took  dinner  there  and  the  girl  gave  me  her  card. 
It  read: 

AMANDA   TOLLIVER, 

EXECUTRIX   TO   JOSIAH   TOLLIVER. 

Only  that  was  not  her  name.  She  owned  coal 
lands,  was  a  woman  of  judgment  and  business, 
and  realizing  that  she  could  not  develop  them 
alone,  had  advertised  for  a  partner  in  coal,  and, 
I  was  told,  in  love  as  well.  Anyhow  there  were 
numerous  pictures  of  young  men  around,  and  I 
have  a  faint  suspicion  that  as  we  swung  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  we  might  have  been  taken  for 
suitors  four.  She  had  been  to  school  at  the 
county-seat  where  we  spent  the  first  night,  and 
had  thus  swung  into  the  stream  of  Progress. 
She  had  live  gold  fish  in  a  glass  tank  and  jugs 
with  plants  growing  out  of  the  mouth  and  out 
of  holes  in  the  sides.  And  she  had  a  carpet  in 
the  parlor  and  fire-screens  of  red  calico  and  red 
plush  albums,  a  birthday  book,  and,  of  course, 
a  cottage  organ.  It  was  all  prophetic,  I  sup- 
230 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

pose,  and  the  inevitable  American  way  toward 
higher  things;  and  it  was  at  once  sad  and 
hopeful. 

Just  over  the  hill,  humanity  disappeared  again 
and  Nature  turned  primeval  —  turned  Greek 
again.  And  again  nymphs  and  river  gods  be 
gan  their  play.  Pretty  soon  a  dryad  took  human 
Silape  in  some  blackberry  bushes,  and  Little 
Willie  proceeded  to  take  mythological  shape  as 
a  faun.  We  moderns  jollied  him  on  the  meta 
morphosis. 

The  Breaks  were  just  ahead.  Somewhere 
through  the  green  thickness  of  poplar,  oak,  and 
maple,  the  river  lashed  and  boiled  between  gray 
bowlders,  eddied  and  danced  and  laughed 
through  deep  pools,  or  leaped  in  waves  over 
long  riffles,  and  we  turned  toward  the  low,  far 
sound  of  its  waters.  A  slip  of  a  bare-footed 
girl  stepped  from  the  bushes  and  ran  down  the 
wood-path,  and  Willie  checked  her  to  engage  in 
unnecessary  small  talk  and  to  ask  questions 
whereof  he  knew  the  answers  as  well  as  she — 
all  leading  to  the  final  one. 

"  What's  your  name?  "  Unlike  her  hill-sis 
ters,  the  girl  was  not  shy. 

"  Melissa/1 

Shades  of  Hymettus,  but  it  was  fitting.  There 
were  blackberry  stains  about  her  red  lips.     Her 
eyes  had  the  gloom  of  deep  woods  and  shone 
231 


TO    THE    BEEAKS    OF    SANDY 

from  the  darkness  of  her  tumbled  hair — tum 
bled  it  was,  like  an  oatfield  I  had  seen  that  morn 
ing  after  a  wind  and  rain  storm  that  swept  it  all 
night  long. 

"  Melissa !  "  Willie  said  softly,  once,  twice, 
three  times;  and  his  throat  gurgled  with  poetic 
delight  in  the  maid  and  the  name.  I  think  he 
would  have  said  "  Prithee  "  and  addressed  her 
some  more,  but  just  then  a  homespun  mother 
veered  about  the  corner  of  a  log  cabin,  and 
Melissa  fled.  Willie  thought  he  had  scared  her. 

"  On  the  way  to  the  Breaks,"  he  said — "  my 
first."  We  hurried  the  stricken  youth  on  and 
pitched  camp  below  the  cabin,  and  on  a  minnow 
branch  that  slipped  past  low  willows  and  under 
rhododendrons  and  dropped  in  happy  water 
falls  into  the  Breaks,  where  began  a  vertical 
turreted  ledge,  hundreds  of  feet  high,  that  ran 
majestically  on — miles  on. 

There  Willie  at  once  developed  unwonted 
vim.  We  needed  milk  and  butter  and  eggs,  so 
he  left  me  to  hew  wood  and  draw  water  while 
he  strode  back  to  the  cabin,  and  Melissa  after 
them ;  and  he  made  contracts  for  the  same  daily 
— he  would  go  for  them  himself — and  hired  all 
Melissa's  little  brothers  and  sisters  to  pick  black 
berries  for  us. 

Then  came  the  first  supper  in  the  woods  and 
draughts  from  the  typewriter  case,  the  label  of 
232 


TO    THE   BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

which  Willie  proceeded  to  alter,  because  the 
level  of  the  fluid  was  sinking,  and  as  a  tribute 
to  Melissa. 

"  Glass— i  gal." 

It  takes  little  to  make  humor  in  the  woods. 
Followed  sweet  pipes  under  the  stars,  thickening 
multitudinously  straight  overhead,  where  alone 
we  could  see  them. 

Something  was  troubling  Josh  that  night  and 
I  could  see  that  he  hesitated  about  delivering 
himself — but  he  did. 

"  Have  you  fellows — er — ^ver  noticed — er 
— that  when  men  get  out  in  the  woods  they — er 
— at  once  begin  to  swear?  "  Each  one  of  us 
had  noticed  that  fact.  Josh  looked  severely  at 
me  and  severely  at  Dan  and  at  Willie — not  ob 
serving  that  we  were  looking  severely  at  him. 

'*  Well,"  he  said,  with  characteristic  decision, 
"  I  think  you  ought  to  stop  it." 

There  was  a  triangular  howl  of  derision. 

"We?"  I  said. 

"  We!  "said  Dan. 

"We\"  yelled  Willie. 

Josh  laughed — he  had  not  heard  the  rattling 
fire  of  picturesque  expletives  that  he  had  been 
turning  loose  on  Rock  and  Ridgling  since  we 
left  the  Gap. 

However,  we  each  agreed  to  be  watchful — 
of  the  others. 


TO    THE   BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

By  the  by,  Willie  knocked  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe  and  picked  up  a  pail — the  mother's  pail  in 
which  he  had  brought  the  milk  down  to  camp. 

"  I  reckon  they'll  need  this,"  he  said,  thought 
fully.  "  Don't  you  think  they'll  need  this?  "  I 
was  sure  they  would,  and  as  Willie's  colossal 
shoulders  disappeared  through  the  bushes  we 
chuckled,  and  at  the  fire  Sam,  the  black  cook, 
snickered  respectfully.  Willie  did  not  know  the 
lark  habits  of  the  mountaineer.  We  could  have- 
told  him  that  Melissa  was  in  bed,  but  we  wick 
edly  didn't.  He  was  soon  back,  and  looking 
glum.  We  chuckled  some  more. 

That  night  a  snake  ran  across  my  breast — I 
suppose  it  was  a  snake — a  toad  beat  a  tattoo  on 
Willie's  broad  chest,  a  horse  got  tangled  in  the 
guy-ropes,  Josh  and  Dan  swore  sleepily,  and 
long  before  the  sun  flashed  down  into  our 
eyes,  a  mountaineer,  Melissa's  black-headed  sire, 
brought  us  minnows  which  he  had  insisted  on 
catching  without  help.  Willie  wondered  at  his 
anxious  spirit  of  lonely  accommodation,  but  it 
was  no  secret  to  the  rest  of  us.  The  chances 
were  that  he  was  a  moonshiner,  and  that  he  had 
a  "  still  "  within  a  mile  of  our  camp — perhaps 
within  a  hundred  yards ;  for  moonshine  stills  are 
always  located  on  little  running  streams  like 
the  one  into  which  we  dipped  our  heads  that 
morning. 

234 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

After  breakfast,  we  went  down  that  shaded 
little  stream  into  the  Breaks,  where,  aeons  ago, 
the  majestic  Cumberland  met  its  volcanic  con 
queror,  and,  after  a  heaving  conflict,  was  tum 
bled  head  and  shoulders  to  the  lower  earth,  to 
let  the  pent-up  waters  rush  through  its  shattered 
ribs,  and  where  the  Big  Sandy  grinds  through 
them  to-day,  with  a  roar  of  freedom  that  once 
must  have  shaken  the  stars.  It  was  ideal — sun, 
wind,  rock,  and  stream.  The  water  was  a  bit 
milky;  there  were  eddies  and  pools,  in  sunlight 
and  in  shadow,  and  our  bait,  for  a  wonder,  was 
perfect — chubs,  active  cold-water  chubs  and  mil 
itary  minnows  —  sucker-shaped  little  fellows, 
with  one  brilliant  crimson  streak  from  gill  to 
base  of  tail.  And  we  did  steady,  faithful  work 
— all  of  us — including  Tiger,  who,  as  Willie 
said,  was  a  "  fisher-dog  to  beat  the  band."  But 
is  there  any  older  and  sadder  tale  for  the  sports 
man  than  to  learn,  when  he  has  reached  one 
happy  hunting-ground,  that  the  game  is  on  an 
other,  miles  away?  Thus  the  Indian's  idea  of 
heaven  sprang !  For  years  and  years  Josh  and  I 
had  been  planning  to  get  to  the  Breaks.  For 
years  we  had  fished  the  three  forks  of  the  Cum 
berland,  over  in  Kentucky,  with  brilliant  success, 
and  the  man  who  had  been  to  the  Breaks  always 
smiled  indulgently  when  we  told  our  tales,  and 
told,  in  answer,  the  marvellous  things  possible 
235 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

in  the  wonderful  Breaks.  Now  we  were  at  the 
Breaks,  and  no  sooner  there  than  we  were  ready, 
in  great  disgust,  to  get  away.  We  investigated. 
There  had  been  a  drought,  two  years  before, 
and  the  mountaineers  had  sledged  the  bass  un 
der  the  rocks  and  had  slaughtered  them.  There 
had  been  saw-mills  up  the  river  and  up  its  tribu 
taries,  and  there  had  been  dynamiting.  We 
found  catfish  a-plenty,  but  we  were  not  after 
•catfish.  We  wanted  that  king  of  mountain  wa 
ters,  the  black  bass,  and  we  wanted  him  to  run 
from  one  pound  to  five  pounds  in  weight  and 
to  fight,  like  the  devil  that  he  is,  in  the  clear  cold 
waters  of  the  Cumberland.  Nobody  showed 
disappointment  more  bitter  than  Tiger.  To  say 
that  Tiger  was  eager  and  expectant  is  to  under 
rate  that  game  little  sport's  intelligence  and  his 
power  to  catch  moods  from  his  master.  At  first 
he  sat  on  the  rocks,  with  every  shining  tooth  in 
his  head  a  finished  cameo  of  expectant  delight, 
and  he  watched  the  lines  shaking  in  the  eddies 
as  he  would  watch  a  hole  for  a  rat,  or  another 
dog  for  a  fight.  When  the  line  started  cutting 
through  the  water  and  the  musical  hum  of  the 
reel  rose,  Tiger  knew  as  well  as  his  master  just 
what  was  happening. 

"  Let  him  run,  Dan,"  he  would  gurgle,  de 
lightedly.     We  all  knew  plainly  that  that  was 
what  he  said.    "  Give  him  plenty  of  line.    Don't 
236 


TO    THE    BEEAKS    OF    SANDY 

strike  yet — not  yet.  Don't  you  know  that  he's 
just  running  for  a  rock?  Now  he's  swallowing 
the  minnow — head  first.  Off  he  goes  again — 
now's  your  time,  man,  now — wow !  " 

When  the  strike  came  and  the  line  got  taut 
and  the  rod  bent,  Tiger  would  begin  to  leap 
and  bark  at  the  water's  edge.  As  Dan  reeled 
in  and  the  fish  would  flash  into  the  air,  Tiger 
would  get  frantic.  When  his  master  played  a 
bass  and  the  fish  cut  darting  circles  forward  and 
back,  with  the  tip  of  the  rod  as  a  centre  for  geo 
metrical  evolutions,  Tiger  would  have  sprung 
into  the  water,  if  he  had  not  known  better.  And 
when  the  bass  was  on  the  rocks,  Tiger  sprang 
for  him  and  brought  him  to  his  master,  avoid 
ing  the  hook  as  a  wary  lad  will  look  out  for  the 
sharp  horns  of  a  mud-cat.  But  the  bass  were  all 
little  fellows,  and  Tiger  gurgled  his  disgust 
most  plainly. 

That  night,  Josh  and  I  comforted  ourselves, 
and  made  Dan  and  Willie  unhappy,  with  tales 
of  what  we  had  done  in  the  waters  of  the  Cum 
berland  —  sixty  bass  in  one  day  —  four  four- 
pounders  in  two  hours,  not  to  mention  one  little 
whale  that  drew  the  scales  down  to  the  five- 
pound  notch  three  hours  after  I  had  him  from 
the  water.  We  recalled — he  and  I — how  we 
had  paddled,  dragged,  and  lifted  a  clumsy  ca 
noe,  for  four  days,  down  the  wild  and  beautiful 

237 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

Clinch  (sometimes  we  had  to  go  ahead  and 
build  canals  through  the  ripples),  shooting  hap 
py,  blood-stirring  rapids,  but  catching  no  fish, 
and  how,  down  that  river,  we  had  foolishly  done 
it  again.  This  was  the  third  time  we  had  been 
enticed  away  from  the  Cumberland,  and  then 
and  there  we  resolved  to  run  after  the  gods  of 
strange  streams  no  more.  Fish  stories  followed. 
Dan  recalled  how  Cecil  Rhodes  got  his  start  in 
South  Africa,  illustrating  thereby  the  speed  of 
the  shark.  Rhodes  was  poor,  but  he  brought  to 
a  speculator  news  of  the  Franco-Prussian  War 
in  a  London  newspaper  of  a  date  five  days  later 
than  the  speculator's  mail.  The  two  got  a  cor 
ner  on  some  commodity  and  made  large  money. 
Rhodes  had  got  his  paper  from  the  belly  of  a 
shore-cast  shark  that  had  beaten  the  mail  steam 
er  by  five  round  days.  That  was  good,  and 
Willie  thereupon  told  a  tale  that  he  knew  to  be 
true. 

4  You  know  how  rapidly  a  bass  grows?  " 

We  did  not  know. 

1  You  know  how  a  bass  will  use  the  same 
hole  year  after  year?  " 

That  we  did  know. 

;t  Well,  I  caught  a  yearling  once,  and  I  bet 

a   man   that  he   would   grow  six  inches   in    a 

year.     To  test  it,  I  tied  a  little  tin  whistle  to 

his  tail.     A  year  later  we  went  and  fished  for 

238 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

him.  The  second  day  I  caught  him."  Willie 
knocked  the  top-ashes  from  his  pipe  and  puffed 
silently. 

"  Well?  "we  said. 

Willie  edged  away  out  of  reach,  speaking 
softly. 

"  That  tin  whistle  had  grown  to  a  fog-horn." 
We  spared  him,  and  he  quickly  turned  to  a  po- 
etico-scientific  dissertation  on  birds  and  flowers 
in  the  Blue-grass  and  in  the  mountains,  surpris 
ing  us.  He  knew,  positively,  what  even  the 
great  Mr.  Burroughs  did  not  seem  to  know  a 
few  years  ago,  that  the  shrike — the  butcher-bird 
— impales  mice  as  well  as  his  feathered  fellows 
on  thorns,  having  found  a  nest  in  a  thorn-tree 
up  in  the  Blue-grass  which  was  a  ghastly,  aerial, 
Indian-like  burying-place  for  two  mice  and 
twenty  song-sparrows.  So,  next  day,  Willie  and 
I  turned  unavailingly  to  Melissa,  whom  we  saw 
but  once  speeding  through  the  weeds  along  the 
creek  bank  for  home  and,  with  success,  to  Na 
ture  ;  while  the  indefatigable  Josh  and  Dan  and 
Tiger  whipped  the  all  but  responseless  waters 
once  more. 

We  reached  camp  at  sunset — dispirited  all. 
Tiger  refused  to  be  comforted  until  we  turned 
loose  two  big  catfish  in  a  pool  of  the  minnow 
branch  and  gave  him  permission  to  bring  them 
out.  With  a  happy  wow  Tiger  sprang  for  the 
239 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

outsticking  point  of  a  horn  and  with  a  mad  yelp 
sprang  clear  of  the  water.  With  one  rub  of  his 
pricked  nose  agaiast  the  bank,  he  jumped  again. 
Wherever  the  surface  of  the  water  rippled,  he 
made  a  dash,  nosing  under  the  grassy  clumps 
where  the  fish  tried  to  hide.  Twice  he  got  one 
clear  of  the  water,  but  it  was  hard  to  hold  to 
the  slippery,  leathery  skins.  In  ten  minutes  he 
laid  both,  gasping,  on  the  bank. 

Next  morning  we  struck  camp.  Willie  said 
he  would  go  on  ahead  and  let  down  the  fence 
— which  was  near  Melissa's  cabin.  He  was  sit 
ting  on  the  fence,  with  a  disconsolate  pipe  be 
tween  his  teeth,  when  we  rattled  and  shook  over 
the  stony  way  up  the  creek — sitting  alone.  Yet 
he  confessed.  He  had  had  a  brief  farewell  with 
Melissa.  What  did  she  say?  " 

"  She  said  she  was  sorry  we  were  going, "  said 
modest  Willie,  but  he  did  not  say  what  he  said ; 
and  he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  typewriter  case,  the 
label  of  which  was  slowly  emptying  to  a  sad 
and  empty  lie. 

4  Thus  pass  the  flowers,"  he  said,  with  a  last 
backward  look  to  the  log-cabin  and  the  black- 
haired,  blackberry-stained  figure  watching  at  the 
corner.  "  Such  is  life — a  lick  and  a  promise, 
and  then  no  more."  The  wagon  passed  under 
the  hill,  and  Melissa,  the  maid  of  the  Breaks, 
had  come  and  Melissa  had  gone  forever. 
240 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OP    SANDY 

Only  next  day,  however — for  such,  too,  is 
life — the  aching  void  in  Willie's  imagination, 
and  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  heart,  was 
nicely  filled  again. 

That  night  we  struck  the  confluence  of  Rus 
sell's  Fork  and  the  Pound,  where,  under  wide 
sycamores,  the  meeting  of  swift  waters  had  lift 
ed  from  the  river-beds  a  high  breach  of  white 
sand  and  had  considerately  overspread  it  with 
piles  of  dry  drift-wood.  The  place  was  ideal — 
why  not  try  it  there?  The  freedom  of  gypsies 
was  ours,  and  we  did.  There  was  no  rain  in 
the  sky,  so  we  pitched  no  tent,  but  slept  on  the 
sand,  under  the  leaves  of  the  sycamore,  and,  by 
the  light  of  the  fire,  we  solaced  ourselves  with 
the  cheery  game  of  "  draw."  It  was  a  happy 
night,  in  spite  of  Willie's  disappointment  with 
the  game.  He  played  with  sorrow,  and  to  his 
cost.  He  was  accustomed  to  table  stakes;  he 
did  not  know  how  to  act  on  a  modest  fifty- 
cent  limit,  being  denied  the  noble  privilege  of 
"  bluff." 

"  I  was  playing  once  with  a  fellow  I  knew 
slightly,"  he  said,  reminiscently  and  as  though 
for  self-comfort,  u  and  with  two  others  whom 
I  didn't  know  at  all.  The  money  got  down  be 
tween  me  and  one  of  the  strangers,  and  when 
the  other  stranger  dealt  the  last  hand  my  suspi 
cions  were  aroused.  I  picked  up  my  hand.  He 
241 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

had  dealt  me  a  full  house  —  three  aces  and  a 
pair.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  had  dealt  his 
confederate  four  of  a  kind,  and  do  you  know 
what  I  did?  I  discarded  the  pair  and  actually 
caught  the  remaining  ace.  When  it  came  to  a 
show-down  he  had  four  deuces.  I  scooped  in 
all  the  gold,  pushed  over  to  my  acquaintance 
what  he  had  lost — in  their  presence — and  left 
the  table."  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that  we 
denied  Willie  his  own  game,  and  thus  kept  him 
shorn  of  his  strength. 

Next  day  was  hard,  faithful,  fruitless — Josh 
and  I  fishing  up-stream  and  Dan  and  Willie 
wading  down  the  "  Pound  " — and  we  came  in 
at  dark,  each  pair  with  a  few  three-quarter 
pound  bass,  only  Willie  having  had  a  bigger 
catch.  They  had  struck  a  mill,  Dan  said, 
which  Willie  entered  —  reappearing  at  once 
and  silently  setting  his  rod,  and  going  back 
again,  to  reappear  no  more.  Dan  found  him 
in  there  with  his  catch  —  a  mountain  maid, 
fairer  even  than  Melissa,  and  she  was  running 
the  mill. 

Dan  had  hard  work  to  get  him  away,  but 
Willie  came  with  a  silent  purpose  that  he  un 
veiled  at  the  camp-fire — when  he  put  his  rod  to 
gether.  He  was  done  fishing  for  fish;  the 
proper  study  of  mankind  being  man,  his  proper 
.study,  next  day,  would  be  the  maid  of  the  mill, 
242 


TO    THE    BREAKS    OF    SANDY 

and  he  had  forged  his  plan.  He  would  hire 
a  mule,  put  on  jean  trousers,  a  slouch  hat,  and 
a  homespun  skirt,  buy  a  bag  of  corn,  and  go  to 
the  mill.  When  that  bag  was  ground,  he  would 
go  out  and  buy  another.  All  his  life  he  had 
wanted  to  learn  the  milling  business,  and,  while 
we  fished,  he  would  learn.  But  we  had  had 
enough,  and  were  stern.  We  would  move  on 
from  those  hard-fished,  fishless  waters  next  day. 
In  silent  acquiescence  Willie  made  for  the  wood 
en  box  and  its  fluid  consolation,  and  when  he 
was  through  with  label  and  jug,  the  tale  of  the 
altered  title  was  doubly  true. 

"  No  gal." 

It  takes  very  little  to  make  humor  in  the 
woods. 

We  did  move  on,  but  so  strong  is  hope  and 
so  powerful  the  ancient  hunting  instinct  in  us 
all,  that  we  stopped  again  and  fished  again,  with 
the  same  result,  in  the  Pound.  Something  was 
wrong.  Human  effort  could  do  no  more.  So, 
after  sleep  on  a  high  hill,  through  a  wind 
storm,  it  was  home  with  us,  and  with  unalter 
able  decision  this  time  we  started,  climbing 
hills,  sliding  down  them,  tooling  around  the 
edge  of  steep  cliffs — sun-baked,  bewhiskered, 
and  happy,  in  spite  of  the  days  of  hard,  hard 
luck. 

Tiger  rode  on  the  camp-chest  just  in  front 
243 


TO    THE    BKEAKS    OF    SANDY 

of  me.  Going  up  a  hill  the  wagon  jolted,  and 
the  dog  slipped  and  fell  between  the  wheels. 
The  hind  wheel,  I  saw,  would  pass  over  the 
dog's  body,  and  if  Tiger  had  been  a  child,  I 
couldn't  have  been  more  numb  with  horror. 
The  wheel  ran  squarely  over  him,  crushing  him 
into  the  sand.  The  little  fellow  gave  one  short, 
brave,  surprised  yelp.  Then  he  sprang  up  and 
trotted  after  us  —  unhurt.  It  was  a  miracle, 
easier  to  believe  for  the  reason  that  that  particu 
lar  hind  wheel  was  a  wheel  of  kindly  magic. 
Only  an  hour  before  it  had  run  squarely  over  a 
little  haversack  in  which  were  a  bottle,  a  pipe, 
and  other  fragile  things,  and  not  a  thing  was 
broken.  I  do  not  believe  it  would  have  been 
possible  so  to  arrange  the  contents  and  let  the 
wheel  run  over  it  as  harmlessly  again. 

Another  night,  another  hot  day,  and  another, 
and  we  were  tooling  down  into  the  beautiful 
little  valley,  toward  the  sunset  and  "  The  Gap  " 
— toward  razor,  bathtub,  dinner,  Willie's  gui 
tar  and  darky  songs,  and  a  sound,  sweet  sleep 
in  each  man's  own  bed — through  dreams  of 
green  hills,  gray  walls,  sharp  peaks,  and  clear, 
swift  waters,  from  which  no  fish  flashed  to  se 
ductive  fly  or  crimson-streaked  minnow.  But 
with  all  the  memories,  no  more  of  the  Breaks 
for  Josh  or  Dan  or  for  me ;  and  no  more,  doubt 
less,  for  Willie,  though  Melissa  be  there  wait- 
244 


TO    THE    BEEAKS    OF    SANDY 

ing  for  him,  and  though  the  other  maid,  with 
the  light  of  mountain  waters  in  her  eyes,  be 
dreaming  of  him  at  her  mill. 

After  the  gods  of  strange  streams  we  would 
run  no  more. 


TH 


245 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $t.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


HEf 


DEC  21  1944 


326^5 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


